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November 8, 2012

[This was from last Autumn, just found, as I perused old notebooks, ever hopeful to discover poems, not to mention abandoned phone numbers, leaving the editor at the bar with the blond, while I stumble home to write the poems I must write.  He got laid, I got a poem, he’ll never know.]

This week the weather is in turmoil
the clouds like freight trains on open tracks
trees casting off leaves like a stripper’s sequins
to the rock beat of wind chimes tuned to D minor

But today my heart is at peace, my gut is quieting
(when my heart is in turmoil the storms are in my gut)

Last week the weather felt like a blanket
too warm but comforting in its laziness
the absence in my heart a low pressure system
drawing in the jealous tornado’s random destruction

The Weatherman follows wind patterns & isobars
like the priest with his ribboned breviary, or the lover
absorbed in his coffee house notebooks but
cannot predict tomorrow’s storms, or blue skies.


From → Poems, Ponderings

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