Friday, May 28, 2021

SAFE DISTANCE EDITION - Stone Soup Croutons, 5-26-21: Write the F---ing Poem

Stone Soup Croutons is a weekly poem I write using lines and impressions picked from Stone Soup Poetry'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.

I also have an award nominated book out now collecting the best of my first year of poems. Click here to purchase it.

Our anniversary month is over. Gary Hicks performed this Wednesday, which was phenomenal. I am tired and in need of a few days off and recharge my batteries. Sadly, to quote Spock, I shall do neither. At least I'll be writing throughout the weekend.

Even though this week's poem is more nonsensical than usual and is hanging by a thread, I'm glad that thread is in part its title inspired by Gary's refrain in one of his signature poems (which became a refrain at The Cantab). Thanks for reading.

Write the F---ing Poem

Your here and now,
not mutually inclusive.
Feast, famine, why not both?

Tuck your indecisiveness
in an envelope kept 
under the night. 

Cut yourself with 
Occam's razor if this
sounds complicated. 

They'll take your cake
and give you a blade
to steal someone else's 

A Pangea of pet peeves
reattach themselves
just to be dissected 

in the classroom, sent
to opposite walls 
like cats and dogs.

The meta in this poem
is telling you this is
not a meta poem. 

Empty space won't 
be filled that way. 
Taught to fish, but 

not very well, and 
Denmark starves. God
is merciful, says they

can't stay for lunch.
Even the ants tell you
they're not coming. 

George Floyd renders
everything before this
null and void. 

Some spirits waited
centuries before your birth
just to interrupt you.

The devil keeps distance,
stays by himself in
Killing Fields Park.

The muse moves in 
to take the reigns of  this 
poem, which is not meta.

Left to our own devices 
in the open, we keep 
to ourselves, lest the tanks

cross our brackish waters
and run us down for 
learning to spell the names

of all the victims claimed
while we slept poorly, 
woken by their screams. 

Quit stalling and write
your poem, which is 
not meta, but tells you

watch out, punch back 
those who try to take
your remaining weapon. 

Special thanks to John Sturm, Mary Jennings, Pamela Ballard, Jon Wesick, Carol Weston, Jan Rowe, Bil Lewis, Nancy Dodson, John Stickney, C.C. ARshagra, Chris Fitzgerals, Margaret nairn, Coleen Houlihan, James Van Looy, Eddy Toussaint Tontongi and Gary Hicks. 

1 comment:

JJ Stickney said...

You are one clever poet.