Poets
POETS
Desert dust before the rain hampered our walk
on the Oregon floor
boards creaked with late afternoon lore
Dry gin in a glass waiting
it wanted to bubble like champagne
but there was nothing to babble about
A rake for an unworked farm
listened for fractals
Tesla said he was not available
today
Ears with a mop of white hair
detective with his magnifying glass
he thought of making love to a
young African maiden
she came for the cheese and drinks
not the poetry
he changed his mind
in case she wanted his property too
A thick skinned peach arrives
nourishing seed
sugar salt and cinnamon sticks
she was not about to offer anybody lifts
To hell with this poetry thing
I want to be rich oozed from her brain stem
Wooden baton
rich gravied marrow
gurgled a verse through throttled container
One-eyed pond
there were mosquitoes to be uncovered
or a tadpole or two
Maybe
the mud was sufficiently thin
Such strange creatures, these poets
Gingerbread woman
hot from the oven
offering the sanctity of materiality
she appeased our hunger
with a jaunty hat
What do I think, the ego asked the ego
No thoughts arrived
What do you think, the ego asked Soul
I do not think
I feel oceanic passion
as the rain mutes the dust
beneath the poets’ feet
©GhairoDanielsPoetry2017
Copyright © Ghairo Daniels | Year Posted 2023
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