Thursday, December 13, 2012


The age'd poet died today,
His works of note all thrown away,
His pencils carefully honed to points
As sharp as pain in his old joints,
As brittle as a witch’s ire
All tossed into the open fire.

The age'd poet died today;
No fame or fortune came his way.
And in the last notebook he’d kept,
The tear stained pages where he’d wept
Upon the knowledge Death drew near,
His final stanza written there. . .

And to my children if they’d care:
The heavy burdens that I bear
Will soon be lifted from my shoulder,
For days grow dark, and I grow older.
And none can rescue time gone by
From the clock’s slow ticking cry.
But save this verse, and carve this curse:
“His epitaph should ever tell
They didn’t know he loved them well.”

The age'd poet died today
His final stanza locked away
In smoke toward Heaven--last desire
Unread, burned black by callused fire.

                                    --Monty Wheeler


  1. Beautifully and poignant and in your hands the rhyming adds to rather than deminishing the message. Not all of us can do that well, Monty.

    ... and this is what it may ultimately come to, but not to mind. We enjoyed ourselves along the way and each one has their few devoted readers.

    Congratulations on your book. Bravo! I've made a note for March on my calendar.

    Jamie Dedes

  2.! Love this! so touching and feel the lights towards poet's death so calmness and wonderful poem best ever...:-)♥

  3. So sad and touching (as Sam has said) the fate of some that I know,,had I been there I would have saved something,, We have to do it for the love of it, not only for an audience. However, you, sir, are now immortalized in print, and deservedly so,,, :-)