Poets are just chattel to the Poetry God. Many of us know no dimensions, no parameters, no walls, but keep writing until the cows come home. One reason, probably the most common, is we figure out our issues, and the world’s issues by penning our verse. It’s hit and miss but we think we become, in doing so, a viable part of our world. Even though the world doesn’t read much poetry.
We could be out carjacking, or indulging in murder, but instead we stare into space and think. I thought I was over poetry. I didn’t count on Winter. That bare palette outside the window started to pull and before I knew, there was a stream of poetry forming and spilling over, not in neat piles, but chasing each other around the room, complicating my life all over again. Poets know what I mean. We are a tribe unto ourselves, who hunt and plant with words, who harvest in paragraphs, grain precious to us and ignored except to the starving amongst us.
Are we really
At the top of the food chain
Or is this the conceit
Hit over the head with the Bible
And the further conceit
Dominion= Over= the= Earth?
I see a bit of a food chain,
It blurs when reality comes close.
Yesterday, the Coroner dragged a body bag
Out of the woods and over the rocks.
A homeless man died in those woods
The fox and worms and who knows what else
Had at him, so he was light as a feather,
Inconsequential, probably never more
In the eyes of most while he breathed.
He must have been,
this lightness of being.
It took only one man to drag
Him like so much garbage
To the van in the street,
Bumping him over the pavement.
(I’ve seen dead dogs treated with
So….the food chain
Gets blurred, confused
In the light of actual life.
And those who say we are the wisest
The most intelligent–
Still allow their species to die in the cold,
To rot yards from their warm houses
To be fed upon by wildlife
That is waiting for our stupid mistakes
To reveal the real food chain existing
Under our noses.