Nocturne: 34th Winter

A three-degree wind out there. On the radio, a jazz version of "Time After Time," orange tears intact.

Dark speech upon the harp. The doctor in Berlin. La demoiselle de Brooklyn, exultant, tyrannical, supreme.

Keep the veracities tangled up in traffic.


A dark wind scowls. A saxophone makes 1984 immediate. When did it all begin, was it with Mrs Watkins and the misconstrued syllabus?

If a tune plagues the ear, unhinder it, unlock the song.

It was not enough to live within that golden voice, or under the dominion of those dark brown eyes.

Those were the days of dead leaves in public parks, alternative lyrics of doom. This, the creative world in its rust and splendor. Its tinted agonies and blighted bliss.

Ambitions moribund, frosted burgeonings. Is there no chronicle that is not of wasted days?

Back to the diaries of Bardstown and vicinity, to the liturgies of loss, to the great entertainment of grief and glory. Back to the strange-sounding Now with its dusty radiance, its bleary sobriety.


Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2017-06-29 at 08:21

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ken d williams The PoetBay support member heart!
Bravo! Tom


by Thomas DeFreitas