Just now, just moments ago, just as 2:00 struck, I stacked the final word among a pile of words from the ends of my fingertips. They dare call themselves a poem.
I am not sure if they will suffice as “poem” at all to anyone else.
But to me, writing them, finally feels like I should be on a television post game party proclaiming, “I’m going to Disneyland!” except for me I would say something like, “I am going to Ina Coolbrith Park” or “I am going to Trail of 100 Giants!” or “I am going to Dana Point” or “I am going to go hang out in Emily’s backyard!”
Today, I wrote a poem.
Finally.
Mind voice narrates
“I am trying to write”
But I am writing
My fingertips are striking
Letters, words are
Being vomited on the page
Slowly albeit a
Stench, an acrid leftover
Empty storm of belches
Left my gut in search
Of affirming words
Gaetano Donizatti is not it
How pretentious
It sounds & feels
So I read
Jo Carson’s words: they are ~
Completely earthy
Splattered with red soil
From graves dug deep
My work ~ her work
Is loving the world
Another beloved poem
Reminds me
Pairs of eyes wait
To read my unwritten
Words no matter how
Putrid how
Saccharine how
Tawdry how
Chirpy how
Maudlin
To borrow from
Jo, with a slight
Change:
“When I am dead, it will not matter
How hard those eyes stare at the page,
Press their ears to the ground,
Wait by their mailboxes.”
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© 2012
Julie Jordan Scott
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