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Tuesday, June 02, 2009

This is Poetry

1

It's not long now,
before the words journey
over a lake that hums
and quiets in turn.

I start to see their images --
they come with iron will;
I feel their hunger burn
in the stomach, a pit bull snapping
at its leash, tied to fences
of reason, buckling at the knees
in this trapping season.

I'm frozen, caught by the sway,
sitting down watching
them come over a contextual bay,

a tired, swollen
back against the day's horizon,
sharpening pencil and thoughts
to mark the occasion.

2

I can hear their whistling call,
they fill the ears and belly,
and fingers and mind pick
the sounds carefully,

unwilling to let the waters
below drown the message
in muddy mime, shifting slow,
I catch them in the air, though
they surrender uneasily
to the safety of pencilled rhyme;
it's their nature to be free.

I'm molten, my fingers prickle
with their tiny, gnashing
bites of inspiration,

forming them into meaning,
of struggle, of frustration,
of a long, long incubation --
this is my poetry.

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