You have visited this
poem before, walked by
it on the street a thousand
times and not known
its name or station
It has begged bread, attended
your cousin’s funeral,
and took your trash away
this week
You have tasted it
and then spat it out
because you said it was flat
Even though the period
comes soon
be sure you note it
has not really ended.
Cartoon Nelson
takes me on board
his vibrant
technicolor rocket ship
I blast away
to immortal
pastel oblivion.
Facing a cave wall, some eggheads
Considered the etchings and characters
Left behind by ancient architects
They must have had something in common
Head, heart, lust, recipes?
But their faces are long buried
Beneath tides of earth and moss
Someday, they will be in a museum
Someday perhaps, they shall be truly rediscovered…
You can’t please them all
got to put your
words out there
Let them crackle
like bacon on the sidewalk
Sell them like portraits
at the beach
Art is more than high bids.
It’s not likely
I will know the
rewards of a literary
life now
But I can still
etch my little words
carve my name
here and there.
One end of the dusty shelf
held upright by a solid sculpture
of readings, the other a vase
of dotted flowers, clearly fake,
eternal plumage.
My beginning, traced through
the words of comic books, then
Michael Crichton, then Kurt Vonnegut,
whatever blared at me on the shelf
or was handed to me.
Colorful panels to creative words.
Lately, a pile of textbooks, some
words revisited, articles about study,
there are always new terms to find.
New wisdom to open up and air out.
More at http://jddehartwriting.blogspot.com.
