The Last Poem

So, here is THE LAST POEM. There will be no new James Bond movie, thanks to the jealousy of  Chas Cunningham. Who knew, he was……….THE ONE?


“Here’s a napkin. Wipe that egg off your face!”

If I had time I would write a poem with this title. I suggested Lara Roozemond author an epic poem and she unfriended me from facebook and Instagram. I sent her a sample of my book. Victoria Bond’s mentor, an old Sea Hag, is having orgasms from the eels put in a tub of water in which she put her feet to remove dead skin. Not the smartest way to get to know someone. But, this is what I, and the Bond Universe, did! If 30 million Christian voters can overlook Trump’s pussy grabbing? I mean – their children are watching this shit on the fake news.

“Mommy! Why is our Beloved Rapture Leader being sued by a Porn Star?”

“Call up your father, the Satanic Liberal Democrat. He’s an authority on this.”

I am sure Rena Easton committed Ulysses to heart, and recited it many times as she vacuumed the vacated office room at the Bozeman airport – in the middle of the night – while the office workers slept.

The beautiful voice of my Muse, is stilled. I compared her to Eurydice. My soul knew she is dead, before my dentist suggested such a thing. I was hoping Roozemond would replace Rena, so the world would not end. But, end it must, like all good things.

Is POTUS penning a poem in the image above, or, signing an order where mothers and their children are rounded up? If they would just subscribe to the Rapture, then, what does it matter there are borders? Will folks in Mexico be – RAPTURED UP? Will poor people trying to get over Trump’s Beloved Wall – be raptured up?

Tis not an angel, or a Messiah behind our President in the Oval office. Tis a mere mortal who poses as a world savior. Who can it be?

The Rapture is THE ENEMY of most great poetry, especially Greek Poetry. Any frumpy Springfield mother can declare herself a Greek God because she is a Rapture Rat.

“My children don’t need to go to school. They’re going to be beamed up when I am. They don’t need to read the Bible and be saved! They don’t need to do anything – but what I tell them to do!”

Everyday, on the news, I hear the testimony of wise men who POTUS drove from our Intelligence Community, say;

“No one may be able to clean up the mess that Donald Trump made!”

John Presco 007


It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match’d with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy’d
Greatly, have suffer’d greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when
Thro’ scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour’d of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’
Gleams that untravell’d world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use!
As tho’ to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro’ soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil’d, and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

About Royal Rosamond Press

I am an artist, a writer, and a theologian.
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1 Response to The Last Poem

  1. Reblogged this on Rosamond Press and commented:

    Doomsday Dunce

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