Snake dances on the branches of an apple tree
With an eye for a fruit, red like prey’s blood
And offers it To the Three Blind Mice
As her gift for Saint Valentine’s Day!
Elephant indulges in her kinky fetish
Allowing a million ants march in formation
In the folds of her ancient skin, nipping at her wrinkles
As she Trumpets away with delight.
The Lion is not the king of the jungle
Preferring the lush Savannah grasses
Where, hidden, he stares lustily
At the rumps of gazelles and antelopes.
The Tortoise takes every step gingerly
As if in remembrance of his bone-crunching fall
From the birds’ banquet in the heavens
That broke his lovely shell
Lying prone on his serpentine form
Each scale warm like dying embers
Her hooves caressing her brilliant reflection
A donkey rides a dragon.
Hello Blog, and you who reads this, Hello.
I have a question for you. Yes, both of
You: Friend, Blog. What do we call Poetry?
Would you call a poem an abstract thing or…
(Apparently, I lied. I have more than
Just one question) …or would you call a poem
Concrete? Can you define Poetry with
Absolutes or do we dwell in a world
Of relatives? Do you say Poetry
Is Poetic? What does that even mean?
* * * * *
I see a boy on his knees, battered and
Bruised by men who should have protected the
Boy from battery and bruises. Kneeling,
The Boy struggles to breathe, I imagine.
He stares at one of those men, refusing
To acknowledge their values and accepting
What could possibly be the end. His end.
Somehow, the Boy becomes more than the Boy.
He swells with pride and defiance against
Wrongdoing. He becomes incorrigible.
He is the beating heart of justice held
With an iron grip in the withered fist
Of corruption and evil, still he beats.
His swollen eyes hold not a glimmer of
Hope, I wonder if he sees at all… In
Those same eyes I see a glow akin to
Both dawn and dusk, a birthing and a death.
Already, there are candles lit, in his
Name and his memory. The silence of
The night broke easier than his nose and
The only sentinels witnessing the
Shattering were the dead Street Lights standing
As blind heralds and a teeming audience
Of Dilapidated Buildings. Cop lights
Zoom off into the distance when, at last,
A body hits the floor, released, set free.
* * * *
I’ll leave you to draw your conclusions but
Tell me, does that count as poetry? Does
It seem poetic? Rouse you to feeling?
If it does not? Why then do I write or
Claim to have that divine grace that makes men
Poets? Why then should I write? Why bother?
If it does, do you feel the glory of
The moment? Do you feel as I felt when
I watched the motion picture and I thought:
Poetry! Somebody? Poetry Please!
* * * *
I was moments away from asking How
exactly do I capture your essence
In words. How do I tell them what I’ve lost.
Because lost as I am, where do I begin?
You are The Veiled Rose and I, the only
One to have had and lost you. You were dops
Of rain and I was a thirsty man. Then
You became a stream and I was scared of
Drowning. Scared of losing myself in you.
Now I am lost in my losing you. I
Am thirsty again. I have become the
Despoiler of Innocence, Corruption
Manifest. I was less than you deserved.
* * * *
I have lost my muse. She did not leave me,
I let her go. Now, the world is less bright,
The colours dull. I have been gathering
Momentum in my descent into a
World of greys. How can art survive without
Colour? How can poetry exist without
Emotions? How can I write without you?