AN OLD LEONARD COHEN BOOK

An Old Leonard Cohen Book

On the front cover a smiling young poet
and on the back it states
the poems were written between the ages
of fifteen and twenty,
while I'm almost 43,
trying to write this,
hoping to steal some of Cohen's magic,
even if my clumsy fingers
dropped any mysticism I once had
years ago, only to remember
Cohen lost his fortune
when he was seventy-three,
which probably inspired him more
than meditating in a zen monastery ever did,
and he composed new music, toured the world,
crafted fresh poems, prevented himself from becoming
just another sad song written after he was dead,
and made millions, while I collect change
in empty whisky bottles,
knowing it's more frugal than a wishing well.

Slowing Dying From the Cold

Where have all my love poems gone?
Back in my university days,
my love poems melted on paper
like margarine spread on warm toast,
but I hid them then,
believing they were actually empty calories
feeding a hunger
that could only nourish me
in my youth.

Now, it feels like they're hiding,
maybe down bathtub drains building nests,
pretending to be ants
in a Montreal apartment during summer,
while my listless words hop around
the same conversations everyday,
trying not to think about winter.

Waiting to Die

Days messy like poems
written in a dollar store notebook,
with crossed out words
saying more than the metaphors
left to love the dust on a shelf.

Disappointing days, where the first kiss
you dreamed about,
swallowed by the real one
that tasted of garlic bread
and loneliness that hasn't aged
very well.

Days as boring as magazine articles
flipped through in a doctor's waiting room,
while only looking at the pictures.

Nights so enthralling, they're nothing
but fantasies
you tell yourself before bed,
like planning how to spend the money
from a winning lotto ticket,
being seduced by Taylor Swift,
or how tomorrow is a different day.

The wind on a rainy afternoon

somehow sounds like a death rattle,
while the clouds look soft
as a hospital bed
and yesterday is a 6 foot hole
and tomorrow moss on a tombstone,
yet there's still light,
sometimes left on by mistake
or existing just to give birth
to burned out bulbs,
but it's there,
dispelling the darkness
we often fall in love with it
too easily.

Richard LeDue (he/him) lives in Norway House, Manitoba, Canada. He has been published both online and in print. He is the author of ten books of poetry. His latest book, “Sometimes, It Isn't Much,” was released from Alien Buddha Press in February 2024.