The Death of a Poet and Other Clichés

I will write a poem

if it kills me.

Even if the line

breaks me.

Even if love

counts its ways.

Even when a

lesser path emerges.

Even if I lie

etherized on a table.

Even if roses are red,

with each petal a cliché.

Even if to be or not to be

isn’t the question.

Even if you tread

softly on my dreams.

Even if there’s water

everywhere but no drop.

Even if I wander,

lonely as a cloud.

Even if no word

rhymes or I

double over in

entendre,

this is a poem,

and I live on.

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Where’s Prufrock? Monday Monday

Settle down Monday,
don’t push or crowd
or cut in line.

Be patient
while I brush up
before your sun cups

me round and round.
I’ll tie my shoes later
after coffee spoons

have measured me.
Monday, a click track
of existence, set

a pace down
between these lungs.
I will breathe a grace,

give thanks,
and skip
a beat or three.

Peach in the sink

 

 

 

 

I dare you…

Read a poem today. It doesn’t have to be T.S. Elliot’s Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock, but it’s not a bad place to land on a Monday.