We’re Still Poets

Been etching sketches in
a straw man’s journal,
hoping to seduce the kernels off
low-hanging fruit.

I’ve been wondering why
we shoot serenity in the
foot when there are so many
good roads to pursue.

If you ask me what wisdoms have
been accrued since eighty-five;
well, my vision’s certainly grown
more asinine, but

I’d point you to the painter
whose masterpieces have grown fewer
and farther between after broad
strokes left him colour blind.

Could tell you of a mime who lost
his inspiration after revelations he
was laughed at and never
with.

I’ll play you violinists whose
clefts and baritones grew more
morose as their treasure trove of
Celtic optimism equated to

an audience sinking
in their seats.

We’d attend civil rights rallies
and realize fallacies of the cause;
forge eternal friendships that can
be gone forever over a few

miscommunicated seconds.

I’d want to tell you we’ll be
neck and neck always, knowing
both of us are capable of falling
apart at different speeds,
but I choose to believe
with all this wisdom we can
refuse to concede to
time-proven odds.

I was handed a pencil and
expected to draw on disaster
but a master of his craft
invests in what comes after

everything else has
left him for dead.

And that, dear friends,
is why we’re still poets,
post-prosaic perfectionists
chasing phallic Zen.

With God in our pens while
prognoses suggest we
won’t outlive the month
I’m ready to play this

tug of war with affection I was
never considered worthy of.

***

Related:

We are Poets

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10 thoughts on “We’re Still Poets

  1. Love love love this!
    “I was handed a pencil and
    expected to draw on disaster
    but a master of his craft
    invests in what comes after”
    Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeesh! and wait…
    “And that, dear friends,
    is why we’re still poets,
    post-prosaic perfectionists
    chasing phallic Zen.”

    So dope!

    Like

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