by Linzy Forbes
It’s not cool anymore to write
of darker unsung passion,
or weave words of wisdom
in uncontemporary fashion.
Some find quaint allegories
reporting idle commerce,
or seek their prime poetic moment
caressing a silk-lined purse.
Valid eyes paint the grim condition,
the poverty, the decay;
matrix their words from darkest night,
make bold the promise of day.
I saw the old poet
joints creaking as he
strode along.
One hand held an old gnarled stick
(with fingers brown, arthritic).
His eyes,
still blue and clear as ice
stabbed the air with song.