I wander through these crowded rooms;
I’m neither vaunted nor maligned.
I whisper to the flower blooms
and tell them what is on my mind;
the plants and I, we are aligned
in matters of our needs and taste:
a water jug, a pungent grind—
we dwell among the noise and haste.

I dance beside a row of tombs;
it’s neither friendly nor unkind,
the banter that beneath me looms
from those who tie and those who bind.
A clearer voice I’ve yet to find,
a stronger pull I’ve never faced
than those in cypress crates, enshrined-
we dwell among the noise and haste.

I drift within the smoky plumes;
I’m neither saved nor left behind—
a junkie from the subtle fumes,
from echoes deaf, from cinders blind.
It seems my fate is sealed and signed,
my silent reveries debased,
then reconstructed, spittle shined-
I dwell among the noise and haste.



Forum Comments:Ballade for Rare Birds (Sans L'envoi)
Hugh Lemma’s oeuvre includes poetry, book reviews, topical essays, and short fiction. His writing is informed by abiding interests in philosophy, religion, humanities, and pop culture. Originally from Southern New Jersey, he and his wife moved to the Phoenix Metropolitan Area in 2005.

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