Don Tiedemann

Rookie - 76 Points (2/23/1950 / Baltimore, Md)

Unchosen - Poem by Don Tiedemann

Here, it is as if the dead never were.
They are not eulogized nor even mentioned.
They are just gone. For the rest there is
slightly more for the evening meal.

The dead are a wasted afternoon,
the arrival of dusk, the sky going dim.
They are shadows losing shape
and becoming a single darkness.

It is hot here. Clouds pass above
in a wind nobody can feel.
Do the dead watch us helplessly?
That is no peace. Do the dead forgive?

The city is filled with dirty cafes.
The tables are all occupied
by faces you have seen somewhere.
None of them meet your glance.

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Poem Submitted: Monday, February 4, 2013

Poem Edited: Monday, November 25, 2013

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