Poems
by Richard
LeDue
Hiding From Meaninglessness
I can hear death coughing
outside my window
some nights,
even if others think it’s only
a cat chasing a bird
or a dog tearing into fresh trash,
because my closed curtains
need to mean something
like all the poems I’ve written
inside dollar store notebooks
and abandoned to dusty shelves.
Something Clean
The millenniums
will wash us away
like bleach cleanses mold
hiding in a dirty corner,
and humanity will be left
with something clean
begging for us to mess it up
so we might be able to create
more gods
to help us outlive our deaths,
only for our voices to fade
into the same silence
that has scoured
every echo
we have ever embraced.
A Poem About Turning 44
It’s hard to write a happy poem
when my grey hair outshines
the reddest roses
and even a birthday cake’s sweetness
has gotten old.
The music of the dead everywhere,
louder than my own voice
humming “Happy Birthday”
between drinks of whisky and water
or ordering a doughnut for breakfast.
It’s easier to cultivate death poems,
nurturing quiet laments for what’s gone
like I’m a gardener
refusing to give up on dead flowers,
who never promised anything.
