I have never been published
or won a prize,
except, yeah, yeah,
the one in the
Crackerjack box
but from that cheap plastic surprise,
much was learned even as a young boy
cull the chaff of life
from amidst the wheat
plant it well and deep,
then forget all about it,
except where,
t'was seeded
when eyes yellowed,
hair turned a color Disney repackaged as
frozen
white,
normally a gift of a hairdresser,
called mother time,
and your pink skin scaled smooth
now kin and kith of the kitchen grater,
then time is in,
cull your plantings
go back into that yards,
pull out the weeds,
uncovering what only time
can provide -
poetry planted and born from
the summary addition of thousands
of days of life,
well felt,
well received,
well recorded,
drawn from earth and water,
well lived
sometimes my nyc sidewalks uneven,
cause a toe snagging tripping,
this loss of balance,
adrenalin hot flashing,
similar to tripping upon a new poet
every time I say no mas,
I must choose tween
left or right,
one can
read or one can write,
but not
both
a voice on I stumble,
making me ever so foolish,
ever so humble,
ever so confused
so at 12:31am
at it again,
reaping what others have sowed
this woman by her own confess,
Trouble with a capital everything
T.R.O.U.B.L.E
only a grownup chile
writs me a poem
re crackers in her vegetable soup,
a naval battle akin to that of Midway,
that makes me crackers with delight!
saucy, that poetess
you better love her well,
she tells you outright
or she'll sell you, the reader out,
for the next one cruising along,
hence this poem, her good graces sought!
but to get certain memories I want,
but can't recall for I never had them,
she, for me doth record:
Imaginary space within a dream
floats in a subconscious sea.
Our affection grows from
tremulous beginnings
its dramatic unfolding
vestige of the soul whispers
and lingers in twilight and ice
Shared breath,
in time our leisured rhythms
savored sweetly match kiss for kiss.
Words in parody drop,
one by one.
enmeshing me in rippling sorrow,
once again you've moved
just beyond my reach.
curse the teachers and the genes
and my plain vanilla simp vocabulary,
that don't let me write like this,
but to my backyard I go,
where I cull what other's have planted better,
and harvest the new fruits of
crackerjack superior poets
Read Patty M,
please yourself...