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.

 

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