The poet spoke
yet few had listened,
few were they
to turn their heads
and see from where
the voice had come,
that place from where
the poet bled.

There he lay
upon the sheets
as one quiescent
on his bed;
and whispered well
his final wishes
while the fleeting
moments fled.

Yet, could it be
that some should hear
the secrets of
a dying man
and take to heart
the message rendered
where the few
could apprehend?

And though it matter
little to him,
(were it for
the words he wrote)
they should marvel
at his genius;
should they quibble
at his note.


Dan Tharp 7/16/08 ©


*Background music: "What the Sun Said" by John Fahey.

the fickle fate of finality

fell upon a frail
frolicsome flower
flourishing in a sufficient
amount of fervency for

her fleetingly
faded fetishes

while her petals prepared
to plummet into

the exfoliative features
of fall

Dan Tharp 7/09/08 ©

A rose abreast the violin...
a bow it could not be --
It could evoke no music nor --
master a melody.

It was fashioned for a purpose;
it's petals to display –
the beauty of creation and –
the scent of a new day.


Dan Tharp 11/26/04 ©

*Background music: "Violin Concerto No. 3" by Anne-Sophie Mutter.