|sticker on street sign, Lynchburg, VA|
when am i not a poet,
everyone has an opinion
'are you still writing that stuff?'
and at least its not, why are you,
as there are days i forget, let it go for easier
convers -ations through a mouth-full of cheese
ball'n crackers, try invading the kitchen with a fork,
only to be repelled
wood spoon to hand back, 'whAT do you think
you are doing, it's not ready, yet. I am
the cook & you, the poet, so go wRite!'
i exit, post haste, find the kid's table & scribble
crayola seeking a poem, play with the children
& throw them in the air, to iambic pentameter,
til one doesn't come down (see i always mess up form)
out the window deer gather in syllables, one for each
unless you include the antlers (that's two more)
& the empty chair stares hard enough
to make me uncomfortable
every year, growing up, at my uncle's house, liquor
was readily available - we'd sneak in while parents
talked and dare each other to run a finger
along the lip then touch our tongue,
back when it was fun to be numb
'write about the angel tree topper.'
'or the turkey truck that turned over'
they try to help, i have to believe---
'you sure you don't need another set of hands'
only gets the look, so i break all my pencils
& arrange them in patterns of morse code
'is that haiku?'
'yes, yes iT is. The creek still runs below the trees,
flush & wash your hands when done.'
'that's not very pretty.'
'no, it's not. it's social justice.'
see, say something the other side of sanity
& suddenly the parade is a whole lot more interesting,
kids return, hopped up on sugar plum dreams
of what santa might bring, rose cheeked & glitter eyed,
'Dinner, is served.'
& poetry is.
written for Poetry Jam
just having a bit of fun today. have an article on marriage that will go live shortly, entitled 'Waking up to find your underwear on the christmas tree' for those interested. Should be up after 9 AM EST.