A Swear to Refrain, #117

Poem, come poem,
poem that’s baffled
and stuck and hidden
in the clogged bowels
of the internet.
What song did it sing?
I recall the ring
of the stanza’s, length
of the lines and thoughts
hurled cross the distance
to a writing kin
who said she adored
the off-key rhythm
and the poem seemed
to gain its focus,
found its direction.

But now, that poem
who showed confidence
in me enough
to sit down and rub
my shoulders and move
my fingers and turn
the screws and the bolts
that start the combine
in my brain, that sole
verse, strung with a rope
so stuck in some dank
dark basement with bits
of light passing by
in one’s and zeroes,
who laugh at the gaff
I’ve perpetrated,
gone from civilized
world sans my poem.

A boy in a tree
hangs upside down, knees
bent, swings back and forth
until all the blood
pools up in his head
and he passes out,
falls, slow to the ground,
and should, on account,
fall straight on his head
and fracture his neck.
But instead he hangs
in air, suspended
by some veiled chord,
velvet and pristine,
taut, holding his form
long in the warm air.

*A train rumbles
down the tracks, and heads
headlong cross the tracks,
stars twinkling over
head from eons long
since past, old light, old
train, the tracks rusty,
fear not, the poet
would not set you up
so obviously
to create and freeze
an accident mid
sentence. The train keeps
on, keeps on the tracks
and heads out of town,
but the boy dangles
on, hung, hanging out.

The train is moving
but the boy is stuck.
Me here composing,
but my poem, one
I adored enough
to give a whole day,
half a day, what time
I had to give, not
enough time to fix,
poem i abused
in the moment. Gone now.
Mark the day and time
because I have found
something to feel
guilty about.

Not the terrible
acts siblings brought on
siblings. Not the girls
I tormented with
a poet’s passion
and lust. Not the lot
of times I been less
than the husband one
needs me to be. But
this wee broken verse,
kind in it’s coming,
and kind, I hope, when
I come home to it
and finish. Will it,
can it forgive me?

The boy somersaults
in air, more adept
than we imagine,
more skilled than he knows.
When one’s survival
and one’s bones are on
the line, we could turn
in midair, midstream,
beaming down the tracks
of the milky way,
stopped on a dime, turn
and halt and wait, till
the boy returns back
from his adventures
and travels, from trips
along the river
bank, from whatever
other mysteries,
other irony
we can explore.

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Author:

A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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