Jeff Griffin’s awesome prompt at FPR today inspired this poem. I’m afraid I had to skip the last three prompts but I’m so glad to be tackling today’s prompt #17
The air, the tree house
that once knew love is now weak in the knees
and in the time it took those moments to become page weary
to turn from solid lines of tree trunks to smoke
A world fell.
Somewhere in the twilight age
the shaved head of jasmines ride the desire
to bloom on wet branches of August
but they have lost touch with themselves
We cannot become ourselves again.
You and Varanasi
where human heads sink when alive and float when dead,
where seemingly harsh, bladder-bright yellow crystals gleam,
are disappearing thoughts
A male world is full of dirty jokes.
Hospitals do not care
children continue to laugh off mestizos
and we do not know EVER if we want to laugh or cry
but Swifts come every day
Watching the middle-aged man finely tune his deck of life.