Of Captains and Mobster Poets

Such should be a
class that could be
as a lab where
we might get up

to such business…

Such should be a class
where the captain forced us to dark uncharted
waters. The soul shown as dark mirror that gives
deep seeded introspection; gives me vision.

Allows me to see that which I should not see,
mourning the loss of my child like romance.

Bound to rules that
when are learned well
are so easily cast off, now.
Banned from the pages that we dictate

as being the rod and rule. For now we have
come to the end when it has all been laid
onto pages milk white and lined dead blue.
The pen has now become the pun, a tool,

you see… Giv’n life by hands no longer trembling.
The word is now the picture, a frame of mind…

I will make no apologies for that which is
said, and what must be put to the paper.
The thoughts that have rattled around are so
near to escape, a sweet release. Far too

long have they been constrained; forced to live in…
inside the depths of my dimension. Now
soon, free to float without form or shape
that was given them by a sinister headmaster.

Words take wing; FLY! Give us your heavy downdraft
to buffet our brains with phrases unclear and meanings unknown…
Standing on our desks we cry loud, “O Captain!
My Captain!” A last honor as we slow march

out these frosted and stained wooden doors.
Oh Captain, My Captain…
     …what a lesson we have been given.

© 2013 p.hill

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