spring you’re too loud for me your garrulous cornucopia a dissonance leading to summer’s crisp crescendo a never-ending symphony a kind of hellish drum that beats me up and I go looking for a place to hide
The first hints of colour are starting to show up without much fanfare. Easy to miss them, for the land still clings to her summer outfit—a seemingly vast stretch of dry stalks. Don’t let her fool you. Don’t let me fool you either. A poem may appear overnight, but I am too busy dreaming of a deluge that comes in full force to wash away the debris… Lots of clouds overhead, but no sign of rain.
Yet, the world spins, flowers bloom, and words find their way to the surface.
Today’s poem got jealous of X. P. Callahan’s unfinished etheree.
I can master the form, but I dare not compete with your writing skills, dear X. P. Too sentimental, I always feel—September’s child.
Your poem got jealous of my poem? Oh, I know the feeling, dear Fotini.
THIS POEM
Has more to offer than you might think, though not
much more. Admits to scanning other poems
with envy. Has stood before honest mirrors
and failed to slash its pathetic fallacies
but eyed its own wrists with sinister intent.
Having wept and fasted, having wept and prayed
in its servile aping of the Modernists,
has presumed to crash the poetic banquet,
only to be bounced, teary and ravenous.
Chairlifted to the summit of Parnassus,
has had to schuss down on its scrawny backside,
clutching a ski in each of its sad mittens.
Dear reader, if you’re still reading, you’ve allowed
this poem to waste your time. What have you done.
Yellow bulb flowers form.
Clouds overhead. Other bright lights below. Crocus saffron stamens raise hopes all not forgotten or carried away by rainy nights. Never too late for last minute for get me nots.