Thomas Akers

Tim Russert died today. It was, I suppose as a thunderclap. A familiar man. While never noting an attachment, I find it existed. Strange. Younger than me, comes to mind uncalled. How personal we make everything and cheap. Pause a moment and think about what remains in our cups.

Time’s half-glimpsed Child,
Old man’s fun;
Whose changeling are you?
There must be someone.

What voice, now indistinct
Fell on your ear?
What was its cruel message?
I hark-en to hear.

What hopes do you harbour?
What do you know?
From where do you come, and
Where could you go?

Could this be brittle hard pride
I seem to discern,
In the rooms of your stare?
I’m anxious to lear…

continue reading...