poem

Poem #22

Some poems have something to say.

This one makes no such claim.

Some are written with a certain person in mind;

This one is a rasped yawp, lost on the wind.

Some poems try to tell you where you’ve been

Like the trail of crumbs Hansel left behind 

To help him find his way home.

But the birds and squirrels must eat.

Some poems are actually snow

That float down to salve the rutted land.

Some are acid rain on the tongue

At the end of a long distilling run.

Some are the summer clouds,

That mingle in the afternoon haze.

But turn your head for a second

And poof  they’re gone.

Some are that perfect wave you’ve followed

Since it first reared its head far out at sea

And regally rolled in to shore only to

Collapse in declasse chaos of froth and confusion.

Some are just baubles,

Dusty half-broken curios from the past

That you carry with you wherever you go.

Put them on window sills

As you move from house to house.

You grow up, have things of your own,

Have kids, have wives, annuities and bills. 

You never think of your aging artifacts

But the minute you notice one missing

Is the opening of an old festering wound.

Mine was a candy house with glazed roof

I stole from my mom 

When I left for Chicago.

As a kid I imagined

That it contained monsters

And it scared me.

The pebbled texture felt hard and dangerous.

I distrusted the things that promised sweetness,

That could break my teeth if I tried to eat it.

But now I know it’s the trinket 

That belongs with me wherever I go,

Reminding me that dad 

Is in the woods with an axe,

Wandering night after night

And he won’t ever stop

Until he finds us,

Until he slays the witch

And carries us all back home.

3/29/21