HOUSE OF THE POET
For the ultimate hoard
I keep my board bare,
no gold or lace
allowed to cover or adorn
that spare purpose.
Stripped of frivolity,
it serves as bench
and table, my words
a daily rite
quenching thirst and hunger.
Whether I gain more
by my frugality
than I here disown,
or lose as debtor,
only you, Lord, know.
But were I compelled
to acquit this ghost,
not as a prisoner
in the heart's dark cell,
but as host at the altar
of the mind's high temple,
I would count my fast
a feast in heaven,
and with one candle
cast the light of seven.
THE GHOST OF ANNE FRANK
The cocks have been crowing
for two thousand years,
so I understand that part of it
and even expected, was prepared
for what happened. This I swear.