Just an all-open mic last night. I didn't have my medical procedure, but I had the kind of week where I wished someone put me under for half of it. Surprisingly, my poem was not only finished before I got home (oftentimes I have to wait till the next morning to settle on the last lines), but I came up with the title before the open mic was done, which is a rarity. Thanks for reading.
The Last Time You Thought
God Might Love You
There are fifty year old films
with better sound than yours.
scratching in your head while
you wonder: Does Walt Whitman
have a more succinct answer
to what grass is? Does he have
intimate knowledge, or is he
bitter with statistics of growth?
Does the earth dream, or does it
push back up to force us all
to stop pounding the surface
in our rage-stomp commute?
Do your Mom's notes in her bible
signify a new denomination?
Praying at night, you move
dark place to to dark place
Your questions go nowhere.
This makes sense on your knees,
sheep trapped in own meadow.
If you walked around town,
your own blood would be used
to ward off spirits in your head.
There is a stone in every
middle of every road,
waiting for some passerby
to recognize your face.
There are wolves at every door
watching you from inside.
 |
| So nice that last week's feature Deb Priestly came back. |
Special thanks to Chris Fitzgerald, Martha Boss, Deb Priestly, Jan Rowe, Laurel Lambert, Julia Vogel and James Van Looy.
No comments:
Post a Comment