There’s a poem out there somewhere
waiting to be written:
A tree, a flower, a piercing insight--
but all I hear is the insistent scream
of the leaf-blower next door,
the fire engine racing up the street,
the bleat and chirp of my assorted electronics.
Where is the music of the spheres
when I need it? Where is my muse,
or do I even have one?
Perhaps all I’m doing is
writing disjointed sentences,
as out of tune as the leaf-blower,
as hurried as that fire engine,
bleating and chirping away
on my laptop..
and calling it poetry.
No comments:
Post a Comment