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Max Gatrell Poems
Sonnet of Betrayal
Lamenting infidelity, An enigmatic mot, A pearl of purest certainty, Not easily forgot,
The Hunter's Horn
For every trail that's ever trod, The hunter seeks the hunted. Betwixt the shrubs and Willow trees, A quarry is confronted.
A Pound of Flesh
A pound of flesh I fain bestow, Serrated blades caress my cheek. Allegiance shaky to a foe, Self inflicted scars are chic.
A demographic donkey-punch, Has choked us all, the Credit Crunch. Percent reduced by 33, Of Style of life and luxury.
Ablution from Above
My sins I wear like soiled clothing, I stand beneath the rain, that I may be absolved. Cleansed I am, yet with arms widespread, I embrace transgression as an old friend.
Restricted by conditioning, Conduced to simply speak, These platitudes of ill effect, Resounded through the week,
Ode to Ouija
Five fingers joined, sating dark obsession, Five looking nervous, tempt their possession. Hands all touching, knees annexed, Call to Spirits, cruel and vexed.
Psalms of love I am repeating, Soulless hearts that you frequent. Infatuation can be fleeting, Rarely borrowed, seldom leant.
Alone he stood on Yonder Mountain, Grasping victory by the wrist. He gazed upon his fallen comrades, Watched their spirits turn to mist.
The Ghostly Quartet
Within the Hotel, all were at rest, All except one, one lady guest. This lady asleep, swiftly awoken, By something unique, her slumber was broken.
Upon these wings I oft abscond, Ascension to a holy place, Extracted from this fetid pond, To capture God’s eternal grace,
Sonnet of Persona
Rapt and raw we scream and moan, When dragged along the path, To atone, all alone, For cultivating wrath,
Although I have necessities, Perceived by some as luxuries, To deem them indispensible, Would sell them very short,
Touch Screen Pining
Upon a touch screen I caress, Your photos kiss my fingers, At least I get to see you now, And emphasize your name,
Comments about Max Gatrell
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Sonnet of Betrayal
An enigmatic mot,
A pearl of purest certainty,
Not easily forgot,
If we trick, contrive, beshrew,
‘tis us that we betray,
Imperfections come to view,
Forever holding sway,
When we’re wounded by a kiss,
We can’t condone the reason,
Though perchance it’s our remiss,
That led our love to treason.
Indignation I agree, an ache with every slight,
Nonetheless we could forgive than live a life contrite.