poetry i told him

 

poetry i told him

is like walking through a marsh

all the words floating on deep ideas

not one of which will release your feet

from their impulse to drag you down 

to the story each wants and needs to tell 

but you have to move forward

to collect the cotten from the bull rushes

to weave the page for your feet to tap dance

all the bright things in your mind’s eye

but the marsh in never-ending and

across the bright stream there is another marsh

and you still have to get to the fish pond

where the golden orfe words are swimming 

and although the poem’s hook is a bright lure

the sun is setting

your words are fading

before they have even spoken

and all you can do is weep

at the futility of it all

and reach for the light