FISHING FOR A POEM – Part One
Drifting, searching shallow and deep
frolicking fish around me leap.
If I’m to find the one that’s right
it must appear sometime tonight.
Although there’s a tug on my line,
reeling it up I only find
a plastic milk carton missing
poetry’s sure thing with a zing.
I refuse to bump
Into Donald J. Trump,
the damn demic’s boredom
or Epstein’s whoredom.
The waves slap quietly as I row,
while moonlight shines on me below.
But where’s the rhyme for which I search
as in my boat I try to perch?
I need to jump in to embrace,
arms open wide so as to taste
the meaty, throbbing of the node
that’ll help my poem to implode.
Now in the depths I can see slugs,
worms, loud weeping and coffee mugs.
Tears and water mix together
To make a poem’s sudden weather.
Near now! I can feel it lurking
A little tug, then it perking.
The mind’s eye finds within the pits
the hidden object of my wits.
This fine night it appears to be
calling out for me to see.
And there it is, a wooden box
On the bottom, without locks!
TO BE CONTINUED
Nan, a wooden box without locks….? Keith
Contents to arrive in 2 weeks…