Today’s scheduled post has been preempted in favor of the myriad animals which carried off, trampled and/or ate what may have been planned.
There seems to be some debate about good poetry. There are a number of camps, and it is possible to pitch a tent in more than one without being branded a traitor.
The Blue Tents stand by the tenet good poetry is a poem, regardless of form, which speaks the same truth to all readers. Regardless of background or poetic history, Blues think the metaphors should be solid enough to leave little or no wiggle room for the reader to stray from the poet’s own thoughts.
The Red Tents are more passionate. They think the poet should leave ample room for the reader to fall into the words and be carried by personal history to commune on an empathetic or sympathetic plane with the poet. Reds are likely to grant you a philosophical debate as to your findings after a reading.
The Yellow Tents believe there should be guideposts along the poetic path, but prefer to meander between the poppies or the octopi to get to where the poet leads. Bordering on existentialism, the Yellows would like to philosophically not care whether you get where they do.
Regardless of which color tent the poet pitches, all three camps are likely to read the poem and either hit it dead on or swim blithely upriver away from the poet’s lagoon.
Over the course of the last two books, you have discovered I can write to please all three types of campers. Today is red. I want to know what you take away.
I am sliding down the rabbit hole on the back of an anaconda.
Truly, I only am there because she turned her belly away when
She wrapped around my chest.
My earring catches on a passing root, and I grab on for dear life.
She must be starved to let me slip from her coils
In favor of a garden pest.
Broken nails, muddy shoes, I claw my way back to the sunlit surface,
Into a thunderous, stampeding herd of wild-eyed,
What happened to the calm countryside, where my buffalo roam?
Horseflies buzzing the ears of a spotted coonhound
On the porch to rest?
I climb a tree, only green on one side, to see what I can see.
Lean out to focus on what can’t be a seaside beach.
Surely, it’s a test.
One I may not pass, since the branch broke and now I am in a bed…
Of angry, red fire ants setting me ablaze.
I head for the foamy crest.
Wading out ‘til I’m up past my gills, I think I found some peace.
But a man o’ war grabs my ankle, giving it
His gutless best.
Now, all I need is a flock of crows to make the day complete.
When I trip on a driftwood stump, I give up.
Just let me rest.
Deep breaths, in and out, I open my eyes to gentle snoring.
It was nothing more than a nightmare.
Preparing me to face the empty bed where you should be dreaming.
Would the nightmares cease and desist, if I could just
Hold you to my breast?
What color is your tent? What did you get out of this one? Any idea what I was thinking when I wrote this poem?
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