Stone Soup Croutons is a weekly poem I write using lines and impressions picked from Stone Soup's open mic readers and features. I figure out a title (and sometimes the rest of the poem) later. You can read the other ones I've done since 2015 here. To paraphrase Lorne Michaels, this poem doesn't go up because it's ready, it goes up because it's Friday morning.
Stone Soup didn't happen this week. Yesterday, I called out to Stone Soup regulars to sent me words, poetry lines or random phrases that I could turn a poem by this morning. I'm so glad I was able to do this.
Though I hate to use the term, this week's poem is a little experimental, from the title (inspired by someone biking by me today on the way to work while wearing both a face mask and a Trump 2020 t-shirt) to the desire to not use the words "they" or"their," which I did eighty times in the rough draft.
Don't know how my overall mental health is going into the rest of today, but being able to check off this box helps of lot. I'm grateful to all who participated. Thanks for reading.
Apocalyptic Dance Squads
have a body of Christ
tastes of bleach and other
unapproved remedies
follow God online
but never like his posts
go out and complain
there's no facial wear
to go with the glare
of downtown fires
huddle in quarantine
ready to vote Trump
with wallets tucked away
in free plastic bats
along with rest of wardrobes
open masks and mouths
to drink poison rain
as it spits sideways
resound with words that
go against bodies' whim
in unwritten scripture
for those who won't read
crack mirrors under
pandemic patio light
hoping insides and out
finally match.
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| Took this by accident on the way to work. Maybe this mean the sky's the limit? |
Special thanks to John Stickney, Joshua Corwin, Erik Tate, Patricia Carragon, Tzynya Pinchback, E.S. and Black Byrd.
2 comments:
Yet again you amaze
it is the stuff of poets and dreamers gone awry- great poems
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