By brian francis
I have never been a poet who can scream their poetic words
from a stage. I am the poet who sits alone in a darkened room
mulling over ideas like a cow chewing its cud. Only to spew
them upon a page and massage them into a preferred arrangement.
Stream of thought, what the hell does that mean;
if it isn’t, stream of thought, how does it form.
Ahh, form, form is no matter, constraints released still sing a sorrowful song
But then again
If rules contrive to blind and bind
construction and structure contain
Meter dictates the measure of time
And sings of itself in its fullest refrain
To step without stumble this prance
To worry the mind, each step a dance
The feet and the steps show the way
words simply carry the message we say
birds whisper to me and threaten my flesh
if I don’t pet and praise them, I’m living in fear
they make me attend them – expect me to jump
they whisper their threats their mouth on my ear
The dogs all are cowards just lying about
The birds have them scared hiding their tails
I delayed my attention just a moment or so
Now blood dripping splatters and trails
Copyright ©2020 brian francis
Wordsmith: At The Forge 