Stone Soup Croutons is a weekly poem I write using lines and impressions picked up from poems overheard from Stone Soup's open mic readers and features. I figure out a title afterwards. To paraphrase Lorne Michaels, the poem doesn't go up because it's good; it goes on because it's Tuesday morning.
Last night, Stone Soup held an extended open mic, inspired by the genius of Navah The Buddaphliii. Everyone had seven minutes to read. It could have been disastrous, but instead people read what they wanted, more comfortable not worrying about the timer. Most people didn't even hit the seven minute mark. It was a lot of fun.
Because I had less to worry about, I tried to do something different with this week's poem. I had done far too many poems that seemed to focus on depression (mine and/or someone else's). If anything, this one will come across as different from the last couple of weeks. I give credit to the poets who read Martin Luther King inspired poems to help me get to an ending.
Catch
The sky is a poor lover
if you just wait and hope to be noticed.
Sky and space wait calmly for a jutting scope
like Galileo used to use.
Every star loves a voyeur.
They repeat their mistakes nightly.
They learn to forget their mistakes by watching us.
Do even the stars need guardians?
Which answer would comfort us
as humans or lovers?
So much time taken reaching out
probing the unknown for a pulse,
hoping even God has an arm to hold out,
some proof that this is a world we can all create,
We can create a job we want
or create a need we want.
We can march an army to war
instead of praying in foxholes.
We can prolong the light
instead of swinging for a switch.
We can prove your loved one's hardened heart
is both alchemy and formula.
You can find the exact length your beard needs to be
to transcend from vagabond to lover man.
There will be those who oppose that philosophy
and claim science and math as proof.
They start with the architecture
of their parents' fists.
Eccentrics inspire dissent, claim the answer lies in running
with tape measure, finding the length of the source of all rivers.
And then the black poets sidestep the big answer.
like crossing the street away from a police car.
The answer is survive, survive, survive, pray for a chance
to jump in celebration, in the relative safety of home.
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| No one EVER takes the number one slot if they can help it. |
Special thanks to Lee Varon, Chris Robbins, Gladys Teresa Hidalgo, Dexter Garcia, David AGee, Martha Boss, John Sturm, David Miller, Nick B., LUCCI, PunQrose, Gawaine Ross, Bill Barnum, Chris Fitzgerald, James Van Looy, Jeannie Nunes, and Toni Bee.
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