It is a fair question Of course Because any poem is Just words on a page Few will read or Breathed into the air And wafted away on the winds
Not the least accurate depiction… Photo by lil artsy on Pexels.com
And yet The poems are still written Still spoken Still sung Still read Still heard Still matter Now as in all the elder days of which we know
Knowing that so little reward So few resources or acclaim Accrue to verse and those who make it Though more to those who worship several Muses at once They still work the work who work it And there must be some reason Even if it is not clear
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Clad in gold and white and blue and
Defying a single eye to look and not
To weep
Send a salt trail falling across the cheek
Before splatting to the ground
But one of many falling thus as she
Parades about under many banners
Letting each of them flap in the wind or
Hang limply where it had been erected
As those who had hoisted them
Pant at her touch
Don’t look straight at…never mind. Photo by Lukas on Pexels.com
It is not gentle
Wringing much from those who feel it
That hot grip upon them
Pulling them forward whether they
Will or not
But they cannot keep her from coming
Themselves spent and not satisfied
They made wet by her less than
She by them
As is so commonly the case
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Such greed as gathers lucre grows apace
Swelling, suppurating, stifling grace
As, charmed by cheers while giving chase
To gold that gleams, a Stupid God looks on
And grins. It gallivants; its growing throng
Delights, depraved, distracted far too long
From worthy works by wiles ill-minded ply.
I and others often wonder why
The world will work in such a way. We cry
For aid, for answers, for some ease at last,
Seek to see the Stupid God sink past
The deeps, descend, and be from this world cast,
But holding hope is harder every day,
And mouths aren’t made so many times to pray.
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Digging around amid the Furrows I have raggedly plowed into Fields that should be better regulated That came to me in good order I find a seed that I can plant Water with such moistures as I can pour out until A tangling vine springs forth to Thread itself up the brickwork built up over many years Cracking away the mortar as it scrabbles for purchase Drawing from soil long since Refined and reshaped for some sustenance It can use to flower and fruit
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That fruit Plucked and taken in Savored perhaps for its sweetness Or enjoyed for its tartness upon the tongue Or maybe boasted of for its bitterness Bracing thereby whoever ingests it Adds to and is subtracted from Leaving a new seed Replete with new fertilizer To find its own place to sprout Take root And offer the chance for the cycle to Start again
I have feasted on much fruit Whether those sold in the markets Rosetti describes Or such as may well have been forbidden in gardens long since Spread the seeds that I have swallowed behind me and All too often turned to look upon what arises Thinking weeds good crops And plucking grain before it has a chance to grow
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I’m happy to write to order for you; fill out the form below to get your piece started!
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He put something up on what was once called his wall What might have been a bulletin board in another time Or on another server servicing another program altogether Noting the love a novelist long gone would have had for An export from Lake Geneva And I commented in turn Wondering what works would have been Had that export not rolled out onto the grid Into the hearts and minds of many
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I stand by the comment Knowing the hours and days and weeks and months and years Spent poring over tome after tome after tome Sitting with pen or pencil in hand poised over the paper Sitting and staring at the screen my flicking fingers foist pixels onto Doing my part for the magic Mackay makes a scholarly project Crafting my own small part of a world that lives Nowhere but in memory Mine and others’ Instead of bound between covers on shelves and for sale But I am not sure I would be better for the exchange
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They pay us just peanuts and I am allergic Choking while they say I should be grateful and Point at those who choke from the sprays Foisted in their faces from behind masks When their own masks are made crimes Point at those who suffer no food allergies Who never suffer from them Or from bulimia, either Point at those who suffer maiming and loss and death While they sign the checks cashed in with that suffering Others reaping the rewards of their investments Red fruit left to rot in far-flung fields But, yeah, I ought to be grateful
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The heavy oaken slab used to
Bandage the wound pierced through the ivory walls–
And it is a wound through which the vital bits
Carrying sustenance throughout the boundaried body
Leak out into the greater world and
Drain the life away from what was never as healthy as was declared
If the pustules filled with voracious white cells are any indication–
Beckons one last time from the edge of the lobby
The foyer that is all the further I fare anymore
Not too far off, no. Photo by Ruben Boekeloo on Pexels.com
I lingered here too long
Even if only ghosting about the edges
Not much more than wallpaper at the best of times
And the best of times are long behind me that I spent in these halls
Thinking that I would have a place among them and deserved one
But I was caught in some of the many cuts
Or one of the sores that rubbed raw and oozed
And dripped out away from that body inside which
I had sought to thrust myself
Expending what I had within me until fatigue caught up
And I could slumber heavily, spent
The disease was already in its bones then
That recently has shown in force
Herpetic outbreak erupting redly across the face and other places
And I have one last set of rounds to make before
I leave behind the doctoring for which I trained so many years
Knowing my bedside manner was not the best
And the success rates for my treatments less than could be hoped
Residency long concluded and fill-in work set aside
So that I could find other ways to pay my debts–
Slowly, slowly, they progress
Terminal conditions spreading leprous and twisting parts before they rot away–
But these last few faces demand my medication
And my prescription pad is already filled out for them
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What delight I found in Baring something I had done to her And reading in reply that She felt just as seen as I felt myself to be Just then !
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Who could fail to find pleasure in Writing words such as Provoke such words in return Or Better yet To take away the words that would form Leaving speechless panting in their wake?
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Elliott RWI 