Forgotten Rite

Lost,

on writer’s block

I

look for the way

poem.

A poem

without you

–and abstract concept at best–

space between

beats

at once

too large

and too small.

 

Consulting clues

at curbside

I consider,

Garage

sale copy

–that points–

to ALL CAPS

and

papers pole

above abandoned

furniture

­–that smirks–

F-R-E-E

below,

but my bits

and baggage

cost everything and

have gone missing, besides

–imprinted but missing–

spinning

past strangers

seeking well-plotted tags.

 

Beggars squat

on haunches

–also F-R-E-E–

disturbing strays

they

–also L-O-S-T–

with nothing left to win

my

disregard hinges

on

my

disconnect

unfelt

and my heart

remembers

only that my route

was different

–paper

and fountain pen–

rather than

cardboard

and marker.

 

Dreaded hitch-hikers

appeal

thumbs without

con

without text, either

advance

sidelines,

a different front

to OHM

–roam sweet roam–

and unable to turn around

(or even take note)

elusive verses

loop

like cursive

on circuitous paths

I can no longer find.

 

Thought Balloons

alight

briefly

­–too briefly–

and float away

. . .

away with Ideals

that festoon

a letterbox

describing

a must-see and

hard-to-find and

not-invited-to

nearby celebration

its lines to enter

defining

carefree

in a tongue foreign to me,

and

Frantic,

(now)

I scan

fruit

stands

manned by barker moppets

–policed by parents–

offering oranges and avos and

a chance to learn capitalism,

altogether too contained

to notice

a writer-less

soul like me.

 

Farther away than ever, now,

with every footfall, farther,

flyers flap

overhead

faded and newly stapled, both

framing favorite

photos of wandering

dogs

and cats

and

last areas seen

reward regret

ranging in heartfelt decimals.

 

Exhausted,

I stop.

 

Calling off

the dream

of poem,

I collapse.

 

Contemplate

a crude cross alongside

–commemorating

car crash casualties–

and after a while

my restless, empty hands

write the carnations

and candles

there

–into clumped circles–

Re-wording elegies

and last areas also seen.

 

 

 

About Charron's Chatter

I bring to you an arrow, whole, Use it, or break it, But if you choose to take it --Know-- With it also, I will go. © Karen Robiscoe @1992

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