Friday, January 15, 2016
A Minimally Brave Poem
Rare poems brand you with boundless
strength to say the many grave things
they mean quickly, in an eyeblink.
A few poems will pulse and flow
and carry on their surviving dreams,
from the bitter snows near the brink.
And let's never forget
the bold little poems of ill-repute.
ever unwilling to let you forget
events of that second bottle of wine,
her pink winter foax-fur coat on top
of your folded old leather shell
spoken in crude linguistic bravado
and the right brand
of bad metaphoric
Lesser poems often end like this:
A Secret - words that won't mesh,
three lines short of a stronger triplet.