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Poem

At first I wondered if all things have been said
already, spent
by poets of the past. They stole our words.
We found them stashed. We rearranged, often
deranged the lines with slash marks and nonsense.
Death was pretty back then
before we hid, behind
the nettles of windows and doors.
The lowering of a casket, not too many urns.
Burning the night
oil and the sound of ravens -
a door knocker that eerily caws.
The cause of writing strong with true feelings
that crawl up one’s spine, teeth that deeply plunge
into the carotid. The festering of sores
Upon palms and heels. Worn
out pages with feather quills and ink blots
cold and alone in the night squats.
The tender rendering of a seagull and a ghost.
A captain that is bearded and robust. The tales
of blind mice and braided hair; and children
with no coded habitat. They curl up
at your feet, next to the roaring fire
of your speech and devour each word
like curds and honey. Honey,
that is sweet. You buzz with excitement 
as you leap off each cliff, hang-gliding.
The tummies of development,
in the youth, filled. Likewise their mouths
form oohs and ahhs; and good girls and boys
laugh and weep. They kick the dust
as they follow their own paths home -
imagination goes wild like a frenzy of bees,
their nest disturbed with a poking branch.
The lustful sweet tooth, aflame - a story
takes shape climbing a lighthouse or tower
into the ears, mouths, eyes and brain.
Already spent, nonsense! Say what you have
to say, from sun to sun. Poet speak!

3/19/2023

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