The Crooked Pacific King
Left, right, centre – where does PNG’s government sit?

R. I. P.


Today, I farewelled the world but it wished me not well;
I waved goodbye but it kept about its pursuits.
So I took to the grave with a pen, a paper and a shovel.
Let hell grant me a miracle and heaven dress me in suits.

Today, I penned a poem (might be, and I pray, the last)
As I sit beside a grave, dug in the darkest shades of a blank paper.
The pen sped across its borders capturing my life, love and lust;
It quickly turned to ashes when Morpheus swept away my lover.

Today, I kneeled beside the grave staring at the bowl
Filled with forbidden fortunes and decapitated dreams.
Boxed in a wall of soil, silence awoke and stirred my soul.
I tried to capture its whispers but I can only pen its screams.

Today, I found myself one with the grave—ghosts are more my kind.
As I lay my head to rest, my fathers’ spirits sing a welcome tune.
The pen twitched, the paper squirmed and a thought came to mind.
One truth exceeds all: Fawn not fathers, for fate fathers fortune.

Today, I buried my soul deep in a grave of paper and pen:
A pauper's burial with a poet's brain. Alone I lived, alone must I leave.
Suits and ties are for the gods. In rags I clothe for I am man.
There must be gods. But must gods be there? The grave doesn’t grieve or give.

Today, I shall leave where ghosts are meant to be. To remain is unjust.
The life I live has its clock; the life I love is without one.
When the spirit of a man is exhausted, he dreams with the dust,
And merging zombies and cyborgs, becomes a zomborg. I am one!

Today, I lay in my grave—paper on lap, pen in hand, a poem at heart.
When I was not, I knew not. When I came to be, blood and tears opened the womb.
How can beauty without be bane within? Am I cursed from the start?
These mysteries I cherish. Here silence defines peace. What’s more quiet than the tomb?

Tomorrow, should a curious child ask of me, let her read the epitaph:

Here lies one whose pen
Fought for men and women
Against a heartless hypocrisy;
A saint without saintly sophistry
And holy history.
Here a sinner lies,
Whose short life testifies,
All true love is happiness in half;
God made sure we never have enough
To live long and laugh.

And so goes my story. When all is said and done, let me Rest In Poetry.


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Simon Davidson

A poet blesses the world,
with the gift of words,
to inspire mortals,
to yearn for the stars.
It's a grave lost,
should a poetic mind,
surrender to fate,
to rest in grave.

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