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The Poetry of
Geoffrey Benjamin Chew...
CONTINUITY
Even the reserves tapped off stage,
right
into the wings,
past
the stalks,
and
onto the ranch,
owned by a
dude named Starfire.
Light as a feather,
stiff
as a chord,
plucked with a pick,
axe left to
rust beside the woodpile.
Reaching out
to brush away the tear,
with a hand;
Me
down soul,
caged
birds signing,
in
the rain.
A black
limousine dream,
wet with
fog horns blowing.
Green
leaves, green leaves
and red
returns with the sun
here it comes, and
it's all right.
Overflow has me again,
in
the maelstrom,
whirling
like a drunken dervish;
and the man
with the top hat says
that
it's time to go, so
we ride.
Geoffrey Benjamin Chew
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