Disappeared three days
after high-grade grass,
just wandered off
into the dark.
But mostly drunk and rude.
Forgiven for talent.
‘Soul of an accountant,’ remarked
the portraitist, painting that.
Mistook me once
for acquiescent. Disabused.
Poetry was blood and breath.
His words could sing or kill.
Moved, seeking the son
abandoned years earlier.
I came across his elegy
for the young man's drug-death,
telling their whole story
honestly ... wept.
[Poem #63]
This began as a game some bloggers played in 2008, to write about people who'd made an impact, in the same number of words as one's age, every day for a year. I did them less often and went on longer, adding one word each birthday. I stopped in 2016 and incorporated them into my main poetry blog. In 2019 I resumed the project and gave it its own blog again, with a new name, where it may unfold at its own (slow, intermittent) pace. I've labelled these verse portraits, but they're more like quick sketches: mere glimpses, impressions....
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