“One writes a poem when one is so taken up by an emotional concept that one is unable to remain silent.”
― Stephen Dobyns, Best Words, Best Order: Essays on Poetry
 |
photo
by Joseph Szymanski ©
|
between
a nap and the medicine on the streets
once speeding
white lab coats
form
salvation in clipboards
they pool what I cared
not
to remember
not
to have realized
that
all I had to do
was
place myself
inside
a place
like
this so many years ago
a
place where I might
have even known
a different yesterday
than today
dreams
are poems
yet
to be
one
verb
after
another
crescendo
nouns
every
description
every
way to pile them
atop
each other
they
become destinations
like
turtles’ connecting to infinity
poems
turn up in places
where
you least expect them to be
just
as the Universe
contains
a math we cannot see
very
well when near
one
of its perfections
a
poem will say
how
will we ever know
how
subtle, a sharp cloud can be
how
can we tell if
mother
nature is painting
or
merely wringing out the rain
so
poem, there you are
at
the window again
and
I mutter something
accidentally
grabbing
the
nurse’s attention
she
looks at me
waiting
to provide
I
smile, like you
nowhere
left, to hide
EJR
©
No comments:
Post a Comment
Hello there ...