Photo by S. AuberleWhile walking in the too-soon autumn woods, this poem arrived:
OUT OF CONTROL
the economy of words
is uttered quickly by a stern woman
on the path, almost grudgingly
and I wonder why she bothers
to speak at all,but I smile,
reply and trudge onward.
My muse appears to be
in the same frame of mind,
though finally releasing,
after endless silent weeks,
a few paltry words
I cup in eager hands.
Poems should be overflowing,
rich and dripping with butter,
wine and hearty cloves of garlic
clinging to them.
These few words are melba toast,
celery,and vegetable broth.
So how, I hear you asking, did this poem
suddenly jump to a food metaphor?
Oops, here comes another one:
poems should be scented
with rain and roses and cloves
and hearty man-smells like baking bread
and woodsmoke-scented shirts,
they should be silky and furry
like an old yellow dog or your chest
where I love to bury my nose.
They should be singing
the Hallelujah Chorus
or Rollin' in My Sweet Baby's Arms.
Poems should be red and hot pink
and glowing orange tongues of fire
and now, clearly, I see,
this poem is completely out of control
so I attempt to rein it in, except
here comes a horse metaphor
galloping haphazardly down the trail
where the stern woman crouches in fear
at an approaching mad rider
with one clearly disturbed muse hanging on,
the poet trailing an abundance
of outrageously juicy metaphors
in her (one last absurd metaphor) wake...