Derrick Hubert Schnabel
Derrick Hubert Schnabel Poems
|7.||If Music Be...||2/24/2011|
|8.||A Symphonic Dream||2/24/2011|
|9.||Nothing To Offer - For David||2/24/2011|
|10.||This Excessive Need||2/24/2011|
|16.||Thoughts In The Style Of Pope||2/28/2011|
|17.||On The Deck||2/28/2011|
|18.||This Is It||3/2/2011|
|19.||Ode To The Weed||3/2/2011|
Comments about Derrick Hubert Schnabel
i would not have you, Belinda, in darkness sit,
on days like this, my hand clasped in hand dead,
remembering sadly your fragrant bed –
each moment therein, what joy we had of it.
rather, while still our lights though dimmed were lit,
bid friends to the parties that once we planned,
happy all the time! until to the dust’s demand,
your soul, not mine, did separately submit.
so, when i come (for you at last will call
and i shall hear and linger not at all) ,
still to your throat, your arms, your loosened hair
will cling ...
i have become a thief of the night, stealing precious hours;
that hated word, metastasis, which makes soon become now,
so easy to hate when i need mostly to love somehow.
do not mourn my passing or miss the friendship that is ours,
grass is still green though we stand in a desert bleak and bare.
around me ghosts listen, my words glint only as fool’s gold;