The Day the Poet Died


One sunny day
in early August
the poet up and died
The song died with him
dried up in his throat
like a cut blade
of summer hay

What can I say
he succumbed
to poetry’s nemesis
[what the coroner said]
overcome at last by
all the sunlight
all the fresh air

He could not sit
pondering words
for hours at a time
when life bade him live
love bade him love
The bumble bee
went for nectar

The poet is dead!
Long live the poet!


About Peter Notehelfer

I'm a retired people person who now finds the time to watch the little details of the world without worrying about being watched by anyone . . . I live on an Island north of Seattle with my wife named Ellen, a yellow dog named McGee, a yellow cat named Gatzby, and four fine chickens . . . I read fiction, bake bread, smoke salmon, and fish whenever the weather allows . . . Oh, and yes, I try to write a poem every day simply to avoid senility!
This entry was posted in free verse, poetry and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to The Day the Poet Died

  1. well, I hope you got all that living and loving and nectaring out of your system – welcome back, old friend

    Liked by 1 person

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