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In these days of middle age,
his sense of the progressive
is gone,
replaced by a centre-of-the-road
accessibility,
he who raised the bar
of creativity,
the poster-poet of the avant-garde,
now disavowed
by the beret &
cappuccino crowd.
Everything he loves is sanitized,
so nuclear-family-friendly,
yet there's none to deny
the beauty he's embraced:
The cobblestone prints
of Thomas Kinkade
supplanting his Warhol
walls;
motherly
Maya Angelou
at the beginning
of bookshelves, cleaned –
Ginsberg's Howl
weeded out;
Garfunkel's
Angel Clare,
from '73,
heard from speakers
Pink Floyd
had dominated;
All I know
to escort the writing
of treetop-birdie poems,
as within-the-bounds
and radio-cordial
as the split with Simon allowed,
crooning after-the-silence
sounds so pure –
he may never leave the trees
to write of death
and blood again.
From Angel Clare (Harmonia Press, 2007)
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