Poets pilfer
pretty pillars
piling on the posts.
Prose may ponder,
poets wither
if they plod along.
Press the lever
scribe together,
pithy pens must prize
every minute
that we’re in it
free from
typhus cough.
A free-fall, motorcycle, hang-glider,
Hung on the line like a poison spider
Win a eulogy from William Greider,
Car crash, ptomaine, disposable lighter,
A bus plunge, avalanche, a vinegar cider
Free-fall, motorcycle, hang-glider.
Apprehension strobes,
flickers like hummingbird wings
en route to nectar.
In tidal pools
wading over
intricate shells
stirred to the surface
on careless strolls.
If I put my ear
to your stanzas,
what depths dashed on
cliff faces will I hear?
Great band, great songs, great concert… But it’s bloody hard to write with one of their songs in my head…
Feste's Lute 