Poetry

‘Hello, 911’
 
‘Yeah, I need someone
to help me check up on
this poem down on
Maycolm Drive… 
Not sure if he’s still alive’

‘Sir, what are his vital signs?’
 
‘Not sure, his beat feels off key’
 
 ‘And his spirits and dreams?
Does he howl at the moon?’
 
‘What do you mean?
all I see is drip and drool’
 
‘What about his love?
‘what does he sing of?’
 
‘How would I know,
there is nothing to show,
besides a poem, a book,
and a bottle on the side
of the road..’
 
‘Is he breathing?’
 
‘Yeah, his chest is
slightly moving..’
 
‘Wait!’
‘What?’
‘Weeping wonders’
 ‘Huh?’
‘He….. he…… just sat up
and sang something!’
 
‘Hastening havoc, what did he just sing?’
 
‘Not sure, but he has Invisible Man beside him’
 
‘As in Ralph Ellison?’       
 
‘Yeah’
 
‘Hmm… what could these signs and symbols be signifying?
Spellbinding!’

 ‘What a paradox!’
 
‘Exactly my thoughts!’
 
‘So, what’s he doing now?’
 
‘He slumped back down!’
 
‘Okay,
…… and the bottle?’
‘Looks like a variety of Cabernet’
‘Sounds like he must have had better days.’
‘I’ll say.’
‘Maybe he’s been to the local cabaret?’
 
‘And the last time he had fire and zinc?’
‘was when he had some wine to drink!’
 
‘Ha! So now we know the cause!’
‘No more grasping at straws.’
 
‘Wine! it’s wild wind
whistles wisps of whispers
within a well of woes’
 
‘A wildfire’
 
‘Wine’
 
‘what a bewitching vine!’
 
‘yours and mine’
 
‘apparently his too..’
 
‘a grape smasher’
 
‘widow maker’
 
‘this witches brew!’
 
‘Here’s a little ditty I just wrote;
 
Our days spent in the fear of being alone
by night we become entranced by her glance.
Teased by the blush of the burgundy rose
in the light of her lamp, hearts sing and dance,
in harmony with the melody that she creates
through the beauty of her grace.
Spinning her web in view of the harvest moon,
her mysteries become a cryptic key.
Beheld by the spell of her embrace
for love of her truths, scholars become fools.’
 
 ‘Nice piece, but with this poem, what shall we
do?’
 
‘I think the proof….’
 
‘Hey, a butterfly just landed on his chest!’
 
‘Kafka’s metamorphosis?’
 
‘Sorry if I interrupted.
What were you about to say?’
 
‘Surely he’s in the way?
Why don’t you get him off the street,
and get him some coffee to drink?’


‘Poetry as tragedy,
poetry as comedy,
poetry as prophecy.’
 
‘Who was that?’
 
‘Some wino walking past,
he grabbed my cell phone,
sang his siren song,
gave it back.
Then stumbled on.’
 
‘that’s odd, the poem, where is he at?’
 
‘Looks like he’s  coming awake.
But he is still in a daze…. Wait..
He speaks!’
 
‘What did he just say?’
 
‘He said;
“Between relationship and message
there is paradox. Like the farmer and
his ox, each needs the other to be complete.
Without community message is dead.
But community needs message if it seeks
To contend against life’s hardships and grief…”
 
Then he laid back down as if dead’
 
‘Maybe he was just light in the head?’
 
‘But where did he get this theme?
‘And what did he mean?
 
‘Is it the result of word association,
diffusion confusion’
 
‘Or a muse’s inspiration?’
 
‘Or could he be a trickster in disguise?’
His mask reflected in our eyes?
 
‘But why?’
 
‘At least he’s coming to life!’
 
‘Anyway, I’ve got better things to do with my day
than to narrate these games that he plays’
 
‘London bridge is falling again,
falling again, falling again.
London bridge is falling again,
and we all fall in.’
 
‘Who’s singing that hymn?’
 
‘oh, just some children, coming back from school’
 
‘Didn’t realize it was so late in the afternoon.’
 
‘step aside, step aside,
we’ve come by
to fix the waterpipes.
Off to the side,
we’ve got work to do.’
 
‘Bad news!
The city maintenance crew!’
 
Rat a tack, a tack, tack, tack, tack
Rat attack, attack, tack, tack, tack
 
‘I can’t hear you.’
 
‘Hello?’
‘Hello’
 
‘What a side show’
‘a real carnival.’
 
‘What about the poem?’
 
‘no longer making sense.’
 
‘What’s your evidence?’
 
‘I brought him down to the local coffee shop,
and thinking he had an audience, he perched a-top the
coffee bar countertop, carrying on, like
he was some kind of icon running the Rubicon, every
woman’s Don Juan, his tongue prattling
nonstop, blurting this nonsense:
 
 ‘Da bod is a toonin in stra ment,
da bod is a toonin in stra ment’
 
‘sounds cryptic’
‘maybe mythic’

‘Glossolalia?’

‘Or a bottle’s Coup d’etat?’
 
'But he does have the crowd rolling.
Growing! With more people a showing,
up, clapping, throwing kisses, and whistle 
blowing.'

 
‘but if he doesn’t make sense,
how does he hold them in suspense?’
 
‘Maybe its his medium of expression
his way of making connections.’
 
‘Has he no sense of shame?
And what is the lure of these games
that drives his verse,
the magic of his words,
inspiring his listeners to reach higher,
toward celestial fires
igniting their eyes
sending them on magic carpet rides
to realms seen
only in solitary dreams.
Is there reason within his madness,
the ways he provokes sorrow or gladness?
Does he fan a flame already burning
through his nonsense versing,
opening windows into souls,
invoking within melodies sewn
a long time ago
turning each seed into a poem?’
 
‘Could he be the re-member-ing of Orpheus,
the ripening of the fruit of Eros?’
 
‘And the poetry of his poem?’
 
‘Is the poetry of life.’
 
‘And his soul?’
 
‘Becomes a guide.
Listen to the rhythms around you,
to the heart who can hear,
they become music to the ears.’
 
‘So what to do now?
I feel lost since he
has been found.’
 
‘Let it go,
and leave him alone.
Your job is done.
Time to go home.’
 
‘The lake glows tonight
from the shadow of the moon,
in tune, crickets sing.’
 
‘Goodbye!’