Granville Holt

Granville Holt Poems

Not the night call for his mate
Nor the full moon instinct howl
This wolf song sings forlorn fate
A lonesome breed on singular prowl

Much as Mary, when first she heard the Saint,
When Columba's weary foot touched fair Iona
And kissed the sand, and breathed the air,
So thankful his journey across the sea did end,

Take me to the city
Me, only me,
Love me,
Never leave me,

The Red Flamingo is the poets dread,
Its flight tracked over a land long lost
And here and there dropped a feather red.

And as you save the best till last, Millay,
First stroke the eight, so blood to flesh arise,
Though some sighs soothe and some soft lips soothsay,
Each rush brings hush to misty, glaze dove eyes

For visions he will smoke the Deer horn pipe,
To calm her child she'll hum old lullaby,
A song of tears to teach of days gone by,
Of clans who Pow Wow dance as blossoms ripe.

Some say good morning Vietnam, not me,
I never saw one December to June,
Everything smelled of rot and death was free,
Sleep came with night sweats under Sun or Moon.

Please forgive me, so, not Shakespeare again!
I'd love to read a book but what's the point?
I want to live, love, laugh and cry and then
Pause, to take it in like a clairvoyant!

I sat by her bedside, she was silent
In repose and I wished to hear her voice
Yet there I paused as one on mission sent
To find some way to speak soft words of choice,

Poe could never leave well enough alone
And the wasteland of words can kill the soul
Just as Browning hid her love like a stone
Masquerading Shakespeare's whom the bells toll

Hope of the Paiute Wovoka legend
For renewal from ancient spirit people
Who would return with power of Eagle
Wings, and to all sufferings put an end.

There's a song you may remember, it goes,
"Give me that old time religion", Gospel
To those who sit in pews to ease their woes
And make a joyful noise as if some spell

When the Bards of old writ down their sweet rhyme
That unwritten code became a dream quest
Which each sought to outwit and cube the rest.
Unlimited in limits they could time

It's just a song from long ago
"I Go Crazy" words come and go
No one knows the how or the why
But I see it there in your eye

Poor fools, the maker of thy mortal earth
Loves you, yet doubters doubt his holy way,
Why wilt thou sin and suffer sinful dearth,
Pining for escape on some rapture day,

What of Chaucer's use of vernacular?
Could it be that Rhyme Royal tells no tales?
Yet Petrarch survived Black Death to woo her
In secret. As poor Poe, with horror wails!

I stood upon the cusp of my own grave
And there invisioned Archimedes' screw
Turning up a daily dose, for blind nave,
Of endless metamorphosis miscue,

In Vietnam rice paddies grow
In every village row on row.
They mark the land 'neath asian sky
Where our jets roam and choppers fly,

It was Christmas in Vietnam.
Fifty years ago now. (My Mom
Passed about a month or so back.)
Things like that cause your soul to lack

Though oft one thinks your cube is but a ruse
With a succubus called rhyme, crafty woo
Of tempting romance passion in the muse
Which weaves it's twisted tapestry to coo

The Best Poem Of Granville Holt

Wolf Song

Not the night call for his mate
Nor the full moon instinct howl
This wolf song sings forlorn fate
A lonesome breed on singular prowl

Alone in their wild forest home
Guardians of woodland mystery
High upon timbered mountain tops
They roam deep shadows ranging free

Only the whisper of their silent paw prints
Swift across valley and meadow home
Ancient witness to continental journey
Wildlife pilgrims under starry dome

Darklight Monarchs in silken fur
Royal sanction of Red, Grey and White
World renown majestic and noble
From Alaska to Arabia an awesome sight

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