February 18, 2017

Vigil

He was a rough and tumble artist, cut from the Bukowski cloth.  A two-fisted drinker, he rattled off poems late in the night when the madness overcame him.  His bloodshot eyes spoke to the fire that burned from within and from which he, finally, burnt out.

A small, but steady, group of pilgrims continue to visit his grave.  There are times, they claim, they can feel the heat of his spirit.

summer's end
shovelling ash
from the pit


Haibun Today Sept 2016

4 comments:

  1. Great ... it has to be Jack Kerouac ... !?

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    Replies
    1. Thanks Gabri. I didn't have a specific poet in mind when I wrote this, but it could work for Kerouac.

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