May 2020
First it's a fish,
Then it's a rock,
Then it's an island,
Then its a play
For all the neighbors to see.
Then it's ready for the plucking,
Then it goes down easy,
Then you know your ready.
I let in the sun,
It died in the lawn,
Then I drug it out
To the frozen ground.
First its a dog,
Then it's an elephant,
Then its a cobra
Asleep in the sun.
First it's a lesson,
This is the sum
Of every blazing summer
And every wicked winter,
A blue orb circling
The last lonely sun.
This is my weapon,
This is my tool,
This is the place
Where my Mother lies
And does not complain
Of wind or weather,
Or rain or sun
Or the change of season,
Or sun or moon or lack thereof.
Its a fact born of fiction,
The truth and the lie,
Its glass in the alley
And chains gone to rust.
It's the last dream of childhood,
A dream of witches,
And a dream of earth,
It's ice cream stands
And cold shakes,
Its a dream of my Father
In 1967,
Its downtown
And cops and taxis,
Whistles and buildings,
Ice and slush
And black and white
Photographs of sad smiling children.
It's a moonrise
Orange and ominous,
A double locked door
And voices in the hallway,
Police and sirens
And blood at the scene.
This is me on my deathbed,
This is you sleeping,
This is the hour
That becomes you,
The minute that
Becomes me,
This is the second we share.
This is time moving backward,
This is a speck
On the sun,
This is an island,
A rock,
A fish,
Nowhere,
Nothing.
Then it's a rock,
Then it's an island,
Then its a play
For all the neighbors to see.
Then it's ready for the plucking,
Then it goes down easy,
Then you know your ready.
I let in the sun,
It died in the lawn,
Then I drug it out
To the frozen ground.
First its a dog,
Then it's an elephant,
Then its a cobra
Asleep in the sun.
First it's a lesson,
This is the sum
Of every blazing summer
And every wicked winter,
A blue orb circling
The last lonely sun.
This is my weapon,
This is my tool,
This is the place
Where my Mother lies
And does not complain
Of wind or weather,
Or rain or sun
Or the change of season,
Or sun or moon or lack thereof.
Its a fact born of fiction,
The truth and the lie,
Its glass in the alley
And chains gone to rust.
It's the last dream of childhood,
A dream of witches,
And a dream of earth,
It's ice cream stands
And cold shakes,
Its a dream of my Father
In 1967,
Its downtown
And cops and taxis,
Whistles and buildings,
Ice and slush
And black and white
Photographs of sad smiling children.
It's a moonrise
Orange and ominous,
A double locked door
And voices in the hallway,
Police and sirens
And blood at the scene.
This is me on my deathbed,
This is you sleeping,
This is the hour
That becomes you,
The minute that
Becomes me,
This is the second we share.
This is time moving backward,
This is a speck
On the sun,
This is an island,
A rock,
A fish,
Nowhere,
Nothing.
I don't know what has happened. I used to love to write on this site. I wrote a poem on this site called A Poem For No One. I got responses. Now I feel like om writing A Poem For no one. I am devistated. I read these so called poems of the day, most are terrible, like something I wrote in 8th grade. I write on All Poetry, I get responses, encouragement. I've bad two poems on their front page. They're poems are more savvy. I write good poems and don't get a hit. Well I said what I said. This probably won't get read either.
