Episode 2c: Again to Her Bosom

Who bears our tales, pining
in their illegible lines,
in black composition books

asleep in attics, or at
the feet of beds, in boxes
and chests hid in our closets?

How many sheets, how many
reams of stories lie dormant,
our shoddy masterpieces

piled on-point and off-rhyme,
once ripe grapes on dying vines?
How many raisins crinkling

in the sun never to rise,
our old schemes squoze, the subjects
of their last sittings grown old?

How many odd, off kilter
lustings live inside these tombs
or in chapbook tomes, never

again to be picked up, soaked up
or coddled? What schemes can we
devise to let these silly

opuses rise, tell the tale
we’ve been carrying along
in flutes of celebration

or bagpipes that whine beneath
our breath, below our dress skirts
and ties? Or simply, do we

let the earth take them again
to her bosom, make them mulch
and fodder and loam, remix

them with rain, with new rhythm,
with a dash of thawing spring
and sunshine, let new stalks rise?

email: PoetryPoemPome@mac.com
phone: 70 425 Poems

Click Here for the Audio

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Author:

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

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