Wednesday, January 20, 2016

A sharper axe

A good many definitions of poetry have gone by
That private grief is all over the public shoulder
What makes this and not that one a poem
I question while it's in the womb and no reply,
except the pregnant muse getting hormonal.  
The red wheel barrow is heavy with critiquing. 
Daffodils have not given up their sprightly dance 
in the  face of eternity.  The leaves of grass 
are growing their beards. The Emily dashes 
still take us by surprise. What is etched 
on immortality has not lost its sheen.
But every poet throws his axe into the river
Hoping some god will appear from the lore
With a sharper axe and a working poem.

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