Russ von Ohlhausen

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Best Poem of Russ von Ohlhausen

Poets Are Losers

The art of the word yields little fruit when it's first conceived;
It must take root and grow in passionate minds if ever to be received.
A craft much learned of sadness from this world we’re in,
As we suffer right along until our solemn end.

Heroes of a future day but rarely of our own.
Most to be remembered only by ink and bone.
Our souls fulfilled when our words echo from the page.
And so we are merely losers until another Age.


~Arelo

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A Poem Of My Death

Mouths do honor these lips grown cold, fall
On the deaf the words not told.
While among living, dare none so bold,
Broken hearts, no silence said.
O’ Wait to share, now that I am dead.

Stale breath fades and soul does mend, where
Peace has beginning, and pain an end.
Slumber wakens to become my friend.