Friday, May 20, 2005

It's never too late for poetry blitz

I spent the night of poetry blitz sleeping in a small trailer in the very small coastal town of Ngunguru (noongooroo), New Zealand. While there was no chance to post poems all over everything in sight, I felt I would be doing the DPS a disservice if I let the night slip by without a hint of poetry...so I wrote one poem, and shared it with my travel mate (Kris) and since late is better than never, I thought I would post it for you folk now that I am back stateside. It may seem familiar, it was written after Jack's poem..."After reading Dom someone or other...Benedictine Abbot". Please give me comments and suggestions.

Poetry Blitz

Centuries of carefully crafted words
will float effortlessly off my fingertips.
They will nestle into walls, skylights
and coffee makers. Glare
through windows, slip
under doors, rummage
through drawers filled with confidential files.

With the first breath of sunrise
they will twirl and dance with trees,
gently caressing the tips
of each leaf as they burst
into the air like seeds
with the gentle exhale
of the wind. Come night fall
they will stumble

through doorways on the heels
of alcoholic moonlight.
My words will splatter their blood
across the grassy lawns, soaking
through to the very soul of youth.
They will march down main street
in broken haphazard unity
declaring captivating music. My words
will be everywhere.

They will hide
in the sizzle of scrambled eggs,
they will be the last bits of paint
that cling to the brush, the first
sip of beer, the curl of cigarette smoke.
They will stick to the souls
of your feet, and roll down your cheek
with your salty tears. You will find them
in the wag of the dogs tail, dripping
icicles, ice cream cones (double scoop),
and the white lines that race
by on the highway.

They will be slipped
into the warmth under the covers
in the chill of winter, wrapped around shoelaces,
and strapped to the bottom
of swingsets. They will echo
through empty hallways
and forgotten valleys, cling
to wet mops and peal from bell towers.
They will be the bits of cookie that stick
to the pan, dry and burned on the edges,

and when you're not paying attention
they will slip into your evening cup of tea,
glide into your mouth, and remind you
of how your father used to kiss your mother
on the lips
in the kitchen
for no apparent reason.

2 Comments:

Blogger KTB said...

i love it. will, you're brilliant. truly brilliant :)

12:35 AM | Permalink  
Blogger mer said...

I don't know why I haven't commented before now, perhaps only because I thought I already did. This poem drips when read aloud, and rings oh so true.

10:36 PM | Permalink  

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