Best Seasonsmarch Poems
The March of Madness has begun,
(He swaggers around,
displaying his gun)
revolving revolver of the twelve suns.
The pigeons stamp their feet in time
("I knew this would happen,"
says the mime.)
and ants begin to sing in rhyme.
The winds of March betray the truth,
(Wasted chances, wasted youth.)
the shuttered empty carnival booth,
snapshots of childhood on Polaroid film,
(Hand-worked pots exploding
in kilns.)
faded colors, images dim.
The March of Madness ends it all,
(He swings at the third
strike-out ball.)
when rivers stop and mountains fall,
and all that's left is the tormenting beat,
(Everything lined up,
perfectly neat.)
as we cower to hear the marching of feet.
©Danielle White