Not Many Things Are This Grand
Not Many Things Are This Grand
I dreamt I watched an elephant give birth to 7 babies,
eating a Cobb salad and working on a pantoum.
What makes some of us survive trauma while others
keep drowning? Poetry is nothing
but the half-life fade, a merciful end.
When you lift your 80 pound dog into the tub,
the owl of Minerva spreads its wings,
half-awake, half-asleep and drowning.
Everybody is three years old, is breaking boundaries.
You know you’ll never leave
my adrenaline-fueled screaming, extended middle finger.
You blamed me with the falling of the dusk—a very eloquent thank you
where the “shoulds” and the “wants” (or something worse)
have met the enemy in a swimming hole, drowning in it.
I yelled out my window what I wanted
was a new bunch of poets, a journal of prayer. A brief thing.
My questions were not about the “cloak of invisibility”.
I apologize. More fun to say, “I wrote to a shipwreck”.
The truth is often a river and seldom a rock,
a strange, twilight zone, one half
doesn’t like the other half.
While this is sad & tragic,
a 9-year old girl wishes she was Amish
and in the future will be more careful.
She can’t have Dr. Pepper with dinner,
even on a holiday.
Earlier than we’d anticipated, the two separate again.
* A found poem of recent Facebook status updates of my friends. Thanks everyone!
Tags: collaborative poem, Facebook, Poems