All My Poets Are Zombies

I have a poem, In the Dunes, published at The Camel Saloon:

All my poets are zombies.
They drift down the river
of days on blood barely thicker
than water. They are peckish
and peake’d, hungry and gaunt,
irritable and pale and tired.
They need bloody red meat,
flesh for the flesh,
blood for the blood,
in these times when brains
are just not enough.
The sun broke through
the winter storm, a pearl
in a sea of cold cotton,
pale corpuscle of this cold
anemic season, with a feeling
that every winter is stranger
and more sapping than the last.


About Ray Sharp

Poet, athlete, retired public health planner
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