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ADELAIDE Independent Monthly Literary Magazine / Revista Literária Independente Mensal, New York / Lisboa, Online Edition  

 

 

 

LOST CITY
by Ian Allaby

 

 

Lost City

are these the streets of ancient times
where famous faces once did rove?
where voices rang by torch-lit walls
where golden chariots drove

is this the grove where we embraced
is this the home we laughed and cried
is this the hall we held great feasts
for friends the country wide

is this the square I roused the crowd
with speech of gems galore
is this the dock where I dispatched
the ships that sailed to war

are these the temples wherein dwelled
the gods that I revered
is this the town that drowned in ash
the day you disappeared

is this the world we used to love
that nothing could assail?
that world is gone and I alone
survive to tell the tale

 

 

 

Superman

In deep of night a hot embrace,
A mystical zap from outer space,
Then poof! there I was in a super-bib,
Craving a nipple, rattling a crib.

Folks came by to tickle my chin,
They stuffed mush in my mouth so my growth would begin.
I mimicked their manners so no one would see
My extra-terrestrial pedigree.

I covered the crime beat for the Daily News
While in secret I harbored quite radical views:
In high-flying moments I dazzled my fans
With logical leaps and super-human plans.

For fun I had Lois, a sheer delight,
And Annie and Zelda — there was one every night.
For the Man of Steel there was no Miss Right:
To pin him down you’d need kryptonite.

But now that I’m old and I find that I’m made
Of twigs and pulp and wires frayed,
I pray a second chance awaits me when
On some other world I get born again.

 

 

 


God

God is the ever-commencing
and the ever-ending
and the ever bigger, the ever smaller
the ever distant, the ever near
the ever hidden, the ever perfectly clear
the lord of purpose, lord of chance
lord of quasars, lord of ants
the home of the far-flung orphans
the peak of human ambition
the hero, the bum
the unsummable sum
the leap
the call from the deep
the harvest you reap
the feeling the seeing the thinking
the clinging the thinging
the winging
the inging
the singing that soothes you to sleep

 

 

 

About the Author:

Ian Allaby lives in Toronto and publishes an online literary mag (spadinaliteraryreview.com). From time to time he sends around some of his own poems and writings.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

     
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