Thursday, July 14, 2011

Day Seven - Brooding rejected

Here is day 7 on 30 days of poems and the readers have evaporated. I have notice that poems are no longer respected.  Maybe they have become too much thehome for self-importance brooding or shallow love. I have those crimes on my wrap sheet, so I must complain that others must read poetry? Such calls to eat green peas will meet with hiding poems in the dinner napkin only to meet their end in swirl of a toilet later in the evening. The plate will be emptied but the spirit will be left unfed. Listen, do not read poetry because it is good for you. We need the dance of words.


Gratitude

The crowd gathered and spoke
the ritual chant, “Why have you wasted time?”
The fingers of the man formed a harmless
pistol and answered in a guttural voice,
“Purr-uee” The finger falsely jerking
back in a pretend recoil. Waste time,
how ... by chasing riches of the entangled
bodies, metal created to roll past others,
leaving them in awe and jealousy, and
donning clothes with names of designers
chasing the same dreams. Is this wasted
time? The man was asked to repent but
did not feel like it. Though he felt
the eternal jadedness of turning into
lifeless jade, hard, green and beautiful.

The chant return in the shaken dust off leafs.
The man, now a father, again demands
to be left alone. “Waste time,” the audacity
of such a cry. He has the memory of a son’s birth
and the big wheels in the lawn. He jumps
again on furniture, kisses his wife and eats
uneaten chicken nuggets. Still the chant returns,
and returns like a child’s series of whys. Finally,
he curls in expression of a tight fist and shouts,

“Leave me being, dark and brooding spirit.
I have no time for you. I am too busy eating
Tomatoes grown in my backyard, of drinking
Coffee with friends’ faces as company,
And finding the new aches of middle age.
There is still too much of life to be lived. Be gone
Until you return in the midnight of my life
When I a weak. I know the truth beyond
Your hymn. Leave me for awhile. For the truth
Is in the dirt from the great ages that have passed
And will pass. It is in the rings of trees. It is
Here for me to hear in a tonality lost song:
Truth: time wasted me.”

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