Hackpoems

Here I rest, ‘mongst heady stones
Sitting with a book to read.
Naught but myself and hidden bones
Laying down beneath the weeds.

I hear the birds and rodents here
Sitting with my book to read
And strangers pass, but never stay
They drift along, as wind-struck leaves.

Cars and trucks, they rattle past
The wracking racket wrecking me.
For while I’ve hid in a grove of graves,
I remain too close to metal seas.

It seems one cannot roam too far;
No walk, no rest, no wings, no read
Can take you from the drone of man,
Intent on gutting inner peace.

My writing is my solitude,
I flee to music and my books.
For screeching roars and mufflered cries
Can’t o’ertake what’s been undertook.

Yet still I feel this restlessness
Sitting with my book to write
It seems I cannot be content
When natural passion binds me tight.

Perhaps those here could give advice
From under rock or soil or tree
And tell me—maybe—how I might
Suppress my hate of man’s machines.

But no words bring they to me,
Sitting with my book to read.
I long to wait here patiently,
But theirs will outlive mine indeed.

I long to gain their calm in death,
Sitting in the cemet’ry
But—excepting those who blow on by—
All here are at rest but me!