Tuesday Morning Poem

When in flight, take heaps of notes

At 35,000 feet
jammed inside this incredible canister,
render the anonymity of air.

Dreams are full of words.
Sentences warp what is written.
Warn anyone who’ll listen.

Ask, what is a South wind?
Ramble to gather substance.
Hold the confession, the indulgence.

Say less than you mean. You’ll never be first-class.
(You are no Whitman, no Ginsberg, no Plath.)
Don’t give up now.

Worship verbs that slice silence.
Savor the lilt of tangled turbulence.
Don’t ask why.

Scribe stillness, soft and crumbly.
Language is faith. Best to trust similes
and metaphors to wing you home again.

 

Published in the Centrifugal Eye, March 2013
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