Poem By My Son Trystan

No more

Mothballs and cedar assault my nose

The dust mites and stale air dry my throat

A wardrobe that is just that

The lion roars no more

Neutered and robbed of his fire

The last time the words were read

In the darkness of this cell I fear the witch no more

Drunk at her cauldron

Slurred words conjure no magic

Snow driven mountains of pure white

Have dissolved into a gray haze

Footprints like bread crumbs dissolved

My desperate escape blocked

Solid wood between me and salvation

My world made infinitely smaller

When the gateway to Narnia can no longer be imagined

— the magic dies

 

(Trystan Colin Behm- April, 2024)

Quid Sum

Not an academic

Poet

Not a tenement

Poet

Not a beat or a blues

or a church Poet

Not a famous or infamous

or celebrity Poet

Not an Irish or Basque

or Welsh Poet

 

Not a formal

Poet

Not a casual

Poet

Not the kind that takes

to the stage Poet

Not a tenured or membered

or club Poet

Not a for profit or glory

or fame Poet

 

… just a Poet

 

(The County Line: April, 2024)