Shalom Freedman Poems

WHO IS THERE LEFT TO REMEMBER?

Who is there left to remember?
My parents, my brother, all my aunts and uncles gone-
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IN OUR OLD MIDDLE AGE-AN INDEPENDANCE DAY TOUR

The army of middle aged misfits reassembles
For an Independence Day tour
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IN THE MANNER OF BORGES I WRITE POEMS IN MY OLD AGE

In the manner of Borges I write poems in my old age
And dream that they are not only imitations
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THE REAL POETS

The real poets are few in number and largely known by name
The rest of us are endless frustration in aspiration
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IN THE MANNER OF BORGES I WRITE POEMS IN MY OLD AGE

In the manner of Borges I write poems in my old age
And dream that they are not only imitations
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THE WORDS CEASED TO WANT THEMSELVES AND LONGED FOR A WORLD OUTSIDE

The words ceased to want themselves and longed for a world outside
The world outside dumb and beautiful wanted nothing of anyone
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THE LOST LINES AND THE LOST PAGES LEAVE NO TRACE

The lost lines and the lost pages leave no trace
There is no way to recovery
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WHY IS THE WORLD SO BEAUTIFUL?

Why is the world so beautiful?
The grey trees on a paler grey sky
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THERE IS A POEM OF THE EVENING

There is a poem of the evening
never written before.
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