A Poem Can Be About Anything

I wonder if…

     A Poem Can Be About Anything

What shall I share today of me;

the shades that sleep under my tree?

The wild dogs of the night who drool,

or getting an A while yet in school?

 

Poems mirror the mind, you know.

What’re the parts we’re willing to show?

Blood from a refugee’s eyeball

pooling on the floor at the mall?

 

Or perchance Paul, my sixth grade crush

forgot later in life’s mad rush;

the spear point found atop the soil

speaking  loud as any gargoyle.

 

The soft fur of Gracie, my love

who looks after me from above;

we oft don’t speak full truth in here,

hoping instead to spread good cheer,

 

leaving old timbers to shake–

from an underground earthquake,

echoing the ocean’s great roar

contained yet by the shore.

 

Careful not to rip the bridal veil,

crawling along the moth-eaten trail

we sing out long our private song

which from Darwin’s book we took.

 

 

About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
This entry was posted in A mixed bag, poem. Bookmark the permalink.

5 Responses to A Poem Can Be About Anything

  1. lynn__ says:

    Yes, Nan, writers may certainly write about anything but readers may not want to read everything! Some topics are uncomfortable for many people like: refugee eyeballs (or abortion, or incest)…right? Write!

    Like

  2. Well said Nan! And again: Write!

    Like

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