Poetry

Summer Bummer, 22 (174.)

Meadowlark,
what does that sound like?
Does poppy seed ever make a popping sound?
I know it’s harvested from the poppy,
but I’m not sure how that happens.

What can be done with all these leaves?
Is there a distinction between good and bad trees?
Do all weeds look thin and sickly,
or are there killers hiding
among the bougainvilleas?
Bougainvillains, more like –
or bougainvilleans, if you’re into melodrama.
The term bougaincharlatan crosses my mind,
and I enshrine it here for the nonce.

Who’s to say these humorous creations
will live on in memory?
There’s a good chance they get locked away
in the back of my brain somewhere,
and to recall them
would require an oceanic effort.
The moon will be involved,
it will be a beautiful horrorshow,
but a horrowshow nonetheless.

Memory is a trap for the ill-prepared.
If it isn’t written down,
it may be gone forever.
Or perhaps
the act of writing it
weakens the memory’s muscles
and it shrivels to stringy inefficacy.

Pump up the moments,
let the roots twine deeper
so the plants grow stronger;
now might live longer
and shine in the mind.

Standard

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s