Monday
April 30, 2012
Last day of the month. Last poem of April. I've learned a lot about writing that will (hopefully) translate into better poems for May. What did I learn? Be more specific. This last one is an old poem really rewritten. I don't know if it's a specific as I want to be... but it is a start.
There May
Be Monsters
I can’t sing
tomorrow like I use to.
These days my
warble has more wobble
to it. My
chirp a wooden chip clogging
up the
larynx, a tissue always close at
hand incase I
vomit up a phlegmy tune or two.
Perhaps you’d
rather talk about the weather
than my
decaying health. How the seasons seem
to rapidly
dissolve into the next,
how the
nights have paled darker and
the days
barely bright enough to see the faces
of all the
people that you don’t love? No amount
of flattery
can curb the ever growing tensions
between the
north and southern poles. So, why
bother? Why
bother at all? The world will die
in it’s own
time with or without our consent,
with or
without our pleads to see the sun again.
We could
discuss fairy-folk. They’ve grown quite
elderly, you
know. Their once vibrant wings dulling
to a brownish
gray, no longer strong enough
to hold their
tiny bodies up, up in the dreamy air
above our
sleepy heads. I blame reality for killing
childhood...
along with TV shows which no longer
care about
the art and craft of telling a good story.
But my mood
has suddenly changed. Changed, yes,
just as the
steady rain that beats against the window
has changed
from a perpetual hearty beat to an uneven
murmur, a
stuttering breeze, a whimpering wind
that has
forgotten how to call our names.
Silence is
probably the only sound we should make.
Let’s not
utter a word. Let’s just sit here wrapped
around our
own images of what the world should be.
One of us may
dream hard enough to include
the other,
yes, let’s learn to dream the land together.
I wonder,
will there be monsters there?
rrw 4-30-12
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