Dusty
When I write a poem, I feel a thrill that makes my
heart-speed-up
like a herd of kindergarteners out to recess
galloping across the mulch
over to the monkeybars
belly-sliding
screaming
generally giving new meaning
to the phrase “jungle gym.”
I begin with a statement, obscure
unassuming and demure
the opposite of my frenzied pulse.
Just to coax my reader in
I’ll add a little spin
some clever wordplay
figurative language dancing across the page
like ballerinas in the act before the last.
It doesn’t always rhyme
but it always has a twist
(usually it does rhyme; I enjoy the lyrical quality).
A line might repeat
or maybe a whole stanza
this is free-verse after all
rules don’t matter.
And I’m typing this for me—
rules don’t matter.
But wait!
One does
the rule that determines my battery life
I left my charger in the car
my phone’s at 21 percent.
Maybe I should have used pencil & paper.
By this time, my reader
might be getting bored, so I
switch-up-the-pace
likeajockeyinarace
whipping, spurring, shouting, whirring
arms and legs and hooves in poetic harmony
and
then
when
the
race
is
over
collapsing.
13 percent left
funny thing about iPhones
they always seem to die when you need them most.
Is second person allowed in a poem?
(rules don’t matter)
I hope the collapsed horse is okay
I hope the ballerina executes the plié
I hope the kindergarteners don’t tackle her
as stories blur together
running like watercolor paints
with the glass tipped over.
I think I used too many similes
I hope you can follow this poem.
Hope is a fragile lady
she breaks in the slightest breeze
I hope my uncle’s Christmas is better this year
see, he cried so much last time
even the sky sobbed in sympathy.
Grandma has my poems on the fridge
all our pictures on the wall
every year she gets a new one
we get older
but one
just one
will never get older
Funny thing about people
they always seem to die when you need them most.