A Wake Already 


What if I gave a wake 

for all my poems, 

gathered round me 

the mighty clan, 

Viking victors all, 

a funeral pyre 

lit in a royal blaze, 

as we drank home 

brewed mead 

from our raised 

drinking horns? 

What then? 


Bereft now of burden, 

poems each turned 

to ash, scattered 

to the four winds, 

my mind blank, 

would it suffice to ask, 

I beseech thee, 

refill my dam horn, 

more mead, more 

luscious mead, 

keep it coming,

until at last, 

the pyre is out.



©Paul Goldman May 22, 2022

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