• The Eastern Leaves

Poetry of the Devil (for Bob Dylan)

Poetry of the Devil

He could write the poetry of the devil.

And he would sing with the voice of an angel. 

All the imagination that one word 

 could offer,

He would hand over like an old letter 

  inside an envelope,

  And let you decide if you want to read. 

Sometimes the first pass is hidden from the truth.  

  But then, words can change over time.  

  He would meet you some time after midnight,

  And shake your hand like a ghost. 

As a traveler, he was lonesome,

  As a family man, he forgave,

As a poet, he exercised,

As a demon, he would pray,

As in a spinster, 

   He told the truth when he wanted to. 

When the words boiled, like soup,

And pulled the meat from the bones,

He knew the recipe for hunger

   And fed it back to you.    

  Inside water there are minerals are you cannot see.  

   Inside water we go back to sleep. 

   Inside water we go back

        to where we came from. 

He captained the

 murk before the sweet dreamers

  Took the ride. And 

     Cracked their morning windows 

   before the children 

    Pushed their porridge aside. 

You can light the candles and dim the lights.

  He knew when it was story time. 

Maybe once a song and dance man

  Maybe once that time was gone

     He made you blink

 And let it slide,

  Just to turn you on. 

  Life is an endless burn.  

 Burn. Burn. Burn. 

 Life makes you want 

  To go back down the old road 

  Where broken hearts and lovers collide. 

Just when you couldn’t wait any longer 

He would sit down, 

 to the head of the table

  Look out the window 

 And watch the garden grow. 

 You can’t forgive a man for crimes you do not know,

But you can be given to, and not know why. 

 Sometimes only the giver understands

    the gift. 

For Bob Dylan

By Chris Brecht

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