The Run
© 3/30/20 By KW Poole

It used to be I ran from place to place
Like The Flash at an unstoppable pace
Door to door
Store to store
Passing others without the recognition of a face

Then,
Time stood still and caught my breath
Threatening a possible, untimely death
Every day a little pause
As Mother Earth added this new clause:
Existence precarious as that of MacBeth

Daily I run
But now for fun
The outdoor beckons me with her air
The sun and light I wish to share
With passers by, at distance, but not to shun
We are but one, apart and undone

I smile and wave
Sing Happy Birthday to a brave
neighbor boy, eight this very day
Without a party or friend with whom to play
He grins
and soaks it in
And off I run again.
​

Man Lost
©02/20/20 By KW Poole In loving and memory of Dan Sharkovitz A.K.A. “Shark”
Now is the winter of my discontent.
My friend, mentor, my comrade in arms to whence was sent…?
And I am left in the truth of Richard’s madness
The wake of Hamlet’s pain
A father, a brother, a fool, a love, a tutor with the legacy of a name
lingers in shadows behind a curtain not to been seen,
but felt like the blood on a lady of darkness’s hand
I struggle to wash the ache of his absence from my hollowed heart

The gap is too wide to traverse with stitches and tape
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace of endless days...
for, what dreams may come without the vision of your face?
Why wouldst the gods snatch him from earthly embrace and leave us with but memories to grasp
without a trace of your laughter and mirth shared once in daily space
Was’t Ophelia’s lonely heart, pulled thee from the suns and grasses of sons 
to distant pastures unattainable by mortal man?
Did she beckon and wail the moment she slipped, realizing her mistake in leaving thee behind?
Did she fight like Caesar?
Mold a Trojan horse that Helen might fool the fool and capture you, 
once again in her languished embrace?

What say thee now, oh scholar, of most revered words? 
Wast thou not a father?
To a son
To a daughter
Both now left at the edge of tides and tears
Washed o’er their hearts deepest fears
Floundering in the deceiving forest of Puck’s maddening magic; 
the fog of Titania’s forest;
the bittersweet mirth of Quince, Bottom, Flute, Starveling, Snout and Snug;
the confusion of lovers Hs, L & D…
Are we but players on the world’s stage? 
Sans one more master director?
Playing our parts as fools would in the wood
For we are now directionless…
aimless in the tempest of your waters
Swimming for a shore you attained
Leaving so much unexplained…

And as my heart weathers like a rose in fast forward -
which by any other name might smell of sweet decay -
yet, those that blossom in your place will smell of sweet knowledge, a beauty beyond vision and scent -
I seek your guidance where it no longer resides.

​Portia argues her futile case: “Come back my dearest of friends! Come back to walk among the living!”
The merest mortals missing all the parts that maketh you…
Mentor of men
Merry man
Gentle man
Man Lost