Tuesday, November 19, 2019

The Silent Poet's Lament

I have not tested this, the resting pose, the deep sublime
A penny here a button or a shoe, a faded rhyme
A faulty name that speaks of shame that sits inside a dime
Or watches and a hanging door that cannot tell the time.

The floaty, flitty, flabbergasted fluid filling here
Or piles and piles of smells and petty pleasures shedding tears
Extemporaneously changing rage inside a mirror
And all the things that bang upon my door that I’m afeard

So sitting on a stump and rump and calluses and pricks
The delicatest , slenderest of fibrous wicking wicks
The feet of little words go flitting there among the sticks
Escaping to some other page of ice cream cones and licks.

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