I see, looking through a novel read long ago
that most of the story I had overlooked
or misunderstood.
Strings of decades are often a compendium
a journey disjointed by sinkholes and rockfalls;
a digest often left undigested.
If I perused that old book again
went back with a red and blue pencil,
it would no longer be an autobiography
but an 'us' book.
Fact is, you were my collaborators
in these diverse plots,
blameless participants in a tale
I was creating heedlessly
with not a few omissions and fictional asides.
A jackdaw is stealing
my tote bag of unused words,
a rodentlike kibitzer, a pecking dictator
of the worthiness of sounds.
If I run out of bullets now
he will take over my range,
blue-pencil my graffiti,
he will denounce me
as a purveyor of insensible languages,
a peddler of demonstrations
made for the amusement
of dabbling dilettantes.
Then I shall be defenseless.
I will have to render down
the fat of my mind
and when it is all as lean tree bark
it will be my own wickiup,
there I will wait
until he comes creeping again
into my larder, aiming to rob me
of my last cracked chicken bones,
my winter store
to make just a little broth
for my tongue.
The yellow and blue sky
The grass where we lie
The black and blue pencil
The pomegranates that we steal
The crimson tongue of fire
The snake in lyric lyre
The beggar boy and girl
In their union a swirl
Let them have their share
Of pleasure - nothing lasts forever
17 January, 2018
10 Lines, 5 Words Contest:Rhyme ll Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Laura Loo
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