h1

A Poem About The Poem

April 14, 2013

This is a poem about

the poem I could not write.

.

At first I asked my heart

what it wanted to say,

but I had reached a place

where there were no words

in a language other than blood.

.

I searched my brain

but only found there

ideas too small or words too big,

each trying way too hard

to sound like my poem.

.

I went downstairs to

the dusty cardboard boxes

where the past lurked silently,

the relics of my life

casting sixty year shadows.

.

I sensed my emotions

rise like the mist

of early autumn mornings,

memories appearing,

obscured images in the haze.

.

Oops. Brain again.

Well, if it’s any consolation,

I am shut inside, alone,

though it is much too light to be poetic

sitting at a small table scribbling lies.

.

Maybe I should call

Billy Collins.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: