Well, you're in a good mood.
Those friends left and right
could learn a few things,
how not to whine as a kettle
until I notice the gold body,
black pearls for eyes.
To me it's a forest,
first breath of March,
winter locked up
and now leaves bleed green,
snow switched to slush.
Who wants to be raucous,
get sloshed, go hoarse,
slur every word?
With you each syllable
twirls through the air,
hopscotches from note to note.
We may cough/choke/sneeze,
as the curtain rises
but when you choose to speak
spring skips to my ears
regardless what month.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 6:38 PM UTC
Well, you're in a good mood.
Those friends left and right
could learn a few things,
how not to whine as a kettle
until I notice the gold body,
black pearls for eyes.
To me it's a forest,
first breath of March,
winter locked up
and now leaves bleed green,
snow switched to slush.
Who wants to be raucous,
get sloshed, go hoarse,
slur every word?
With you each syllable
twirls through the air,
hopscotches from note to note.
We may cough/choke/sneeze,
as the curtain rises
but when you choose to speak
spring skips to my ears
regardless what month.
Written: September 2013 and March 2014.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time, and the first for my poetry class at university for the third year, in which we have been told to write about a sound - I chose a clarinet.
Request permission to use this poem