Brigitte Poirson writes

THE CLOWN

Born jocund and regal, a king and a clown,

Through the droughts that will drain and the draughts that will drown,

Transiently eternal, earthly ethereal,

He mated words with hers in wild throbs surreal.

Telescoping phonemes and rhythms by the zillions

In visions richer than the scions of Zion’s,

He wafted her eerily to a no man’s time

Where literary oaths and coined love always rhyme.

He fell in poetry with her and filled his quest.

But spun on images, his love yarns rest in jest.

Six feet under Heaven, terrestrial, lethal,

He proved a beast and clown, both jocund and feral.

Both jocund and feral, he was a clown in town.

She anointed him a poet. He now wears a crown.