Out of Print (Poetry)

So seldom quoted now — where did he go?
Black on white — his footprints pocked the snow,
Lines running sharp — since faded from the page —
Fine words that resonated, chimed their rage,
Still linger — vagrant ghosts of floating rhyme —
They hover, half-remembered, caught in time.

Why did he write? What needed to be said
Before he joined the legions of long-dead
Philosophers and dreamers? Did some muse
Seduce him — press him into servitude?
He seemed obssessed with language — high and rare —
His grand archaic phrases fired the air.

The flood of change forgot him for a while —
Moved on and found new artisans of style,
New creeds to follow — cruder verses rolled
In modern formats — freeform — ragged — bold,
And raised their founders — labelled them as lords —
High priests of broken rules and common words.

Nostalgia tugs, and Romance lures us back
To hear again old music — fill the gap
That’s growing — grant the classic voice its say —
Transport us — feel imagination sway
Like trees who listen to the storm-wind’s tongue
And tremble — moved by passion all night long.

Wherever he is gone, he’ll find a home —
He is not lost — believer’s shelves still own
His printed works — each poem’s postcard view
Communicating — sharing — reaching through
To touch a soul at random, keen to give
Perspective from a place where poets live.