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lyrics

I left a poetry reading none the wiser, missed Bowie.
Less than a thousand Jews remain in the city,
one minds the cemetery but is slowly losing the war.

The trees insist on growth, tight phalanxes string aloft
green pennants, spinning factories of energy,
home to Blackbirds singing my lost aria.

Spring is elastic, shade emerges off the trees,
certain flowers are blossoming, mainly weeds.
Empires of moss and lichen conquer the text

and blur the images of fruit, doves, books,
icons characterising a fruitful life. What the dead
do with all their spare time is a mystery.

credits

from New Chapters, Eastern Europe 1990, released April 2, 2023

license

all rights reserved

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about

John Bennett and John Laidler Sydney, Australia

John Bennett is primarily a curious poetic life-form.

John Laidler loves making sounds, and walks at approximately 4 km per hour.

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