Poetry by Richard Kovac

His Last Of Lydia
Lovely Lydia
let me leave you
at last.
Our time is ended;
our tryst is passed.

The lyric poet
must be young
and speak
with yearning
of the unobtainable -
but I have obtained,
if not Lydia,
a certain mean

The Venetian Gondolier
Horizontal slats.
The vestibule blind
is a gondola
out of control,
steered by
a drunken oars man
thru canals
of drunken light,
which may be shaded,
if memories abated
and he pulls
the drawstring
for a tour
of the shadows
of the antique city
of my living room.

You wow me!
Where are you?
At least
let me
woo you.
O Wendy
O w(h)en?
Weren't you
so happy with me
Many moons pass
over Seattle,
and I'm still
the savage,
while you are gone
on high to Mt. Rainier
and hang in the sky
like a cloud.
Your spell lingers
like the white lilac.

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