Monday, December 11, 2017

rising smoke

reading the poem that won the prize
a pleasant feeling brushes my mind
like popping candy in the neurons
and a inner warm glow assures me
that I am in the hands of a master

I grip it for a while in my hand
then put it down and get on with my life

dissolutely flick down through Twitter
let out the cat let it back in again

there must be something left unsaid
if only I could forget all those words
i just read—

out on the compost heap I rake up
the poems into drifts dozens deep
and set fire to the verbiage pile
the smoke rising in a tall tower
a message to the sky, a rocket ship

but even this act of surrender
is a theatre, a dishonesty
for there never is a final act
the show is endlessly revolving
playwright, actor, audience—all in me!