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Rara Avis
Back then, time ticked loudly,
clocks ran faster than chipmunks.
Young bones were fueled by green grenades,
I needed speedbumps for my brain.
Mother said that If I lived to be a man
I would be all strewn about
like a crow-pecked scarecrow.
Eventually I discovered
a way to give words a meaning
outside of the hide-bound and buckram dictionary.
Naturally I had to surrender some grammatical logic
for a more fanciful argot.
It was only then that my pipsqueak prattle
had the effrontery to call itself ‘poetry.’
Now in n my grizzly elder state,
I still remain a rare bird,
ever bamboozled by age-worn chalk-talk,
or any jargon
that refuses to jump out of its own skin.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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