The house poet built.
They say a poem can be a house,
and this house can have one story ,
or many; and there can be one entrance
or many; and those doors can be either locked
or unlocked and there can be keys, or no key,
depending on the poem.
If you find entrance into this poem
you might notice many rooms
that haven't been entered in a very long time and
these rooms might be littered with old memories
of the past, the dent in the corner you made
"playing hide and go seek"
The faded word, "SO" scribbled in crayon under the window
where you used to sleep. The first word you ever wrote
There can be residents living in a poem
but this poem has none. This isn't even the poem.
No, my poem resides up the street to the right of the park
where as a child I'd run and hide. And as a grown man i still visit
from time to time.
The air is empty
And all about, nothing
Stand still lonely child
with your fears and regrets
the moon acknowledges nothing
but time.
Yes my poem is beneath the trees,
my bed a sleeping bag piled among some leaves
There are no rooms here: No one hiding waiting for me.
And the senses are the only harbors of memory, the smell of musty mud,
seeing one earwig devour another earwig. The barking of the neighborhoods dogs
from which you can recognize each and their name; Spike, Oreo, Chip, Blazer...
And you would imagine them running to rescue you with their foaming mouths and
taking the intruder by the neck, shaking their heads and shredding the intruder to little pieces.
But that time has passed. You no longer fear the intruders that creep into the night. No this place gives you nothing but the warm sadness of returning home after being gone for a very long time.
and this house can have one story ,
or many; and there can be one entrance
or many; and those doors can be either locked
or unlocked and there can be keys, or no key,
depending on the poem.
If you find entrance into this poem
you might notice many rooms
that haven't been entered in a very long time and
these rooms might be littered with old memories
of the past, the dent in the corner you made
"playing hide and go seek"
The faded word, "SO" scribbled in crayon under the window
where you used to sleep. The first word you ever wrote
There can be residents living in a poem
but this poem has none. This isn't even the poem.
No, my poem resides up the street to the right of the park
where as a child I'd run and hide. And as a grown man i still visit
from time to time.
The air is empty
And all about, nothing
Stand still lonely child
with your fears and regrets
the moon acknowledges nothing
but time.
Yes my poem is beneath the trees,
my bed a sleeping bag piled among some leaves
There are no rooms here: No one hiding waiting for me.
And the senses are the only harbors of memory, the smell of musty mud,
seeing one earwig devour another earwig. The barking of the neighborhoods dogs
from which you can recognize each and their name; Spike, Oreo, Chip, Blazer...
And you would imagine them running to rescue you with their foaming mouths and
taking the intruder by the neck, shaking their heads and shredding the intruder to little pieces.
But that time has passed. You no longer fear the intruders that creep into the night. No this place gives you nothing but the warm sadness of returning home after being gone for a very long time.
