Poet’s ChoicePosted: April 20, 2011
The crack of doom echoes the silver loom,
where fates and one-eyed gossip shrews
snip continually possible paths and blue devil
secret plotting pasts all guide us
ship shore searching castaways;
meaning soon evaporates,
what sages spit
and TVs pray–
that hundred dollar sitcom fates
hang ripe all around you.
But prophet’s scorn is the same key
as morning bluebird warble songs,
the same wild destiny that binds and finds
all creatures equally
dumbfounded by where the worm went;
here against the battered wall
where birthday marks chart upward progression’s fall,
as lip-smacked we gargle the morning
and all God’s gifted evenings.
And though the script is dog-eared,
and the roles are all filled
don’t worry now
it’s barely dawning.