A Day in the Poetry Blogs

Wild is the tide
Despite its negligee of fleece,
It bears away its tension
Created then dispersed;
The rivals come together
On soft foam, fighting
To the effervescing finish,
A popping into nothing, into air.

The human mind is occupied
By a game, where win and loss
Can matter, positions must be
Defended, achievements recognized
'Til life itself becomes a measure
Of what was gained, not given,
Of what the garment looked like
Not how it felt to be worn.

I try to read the dead poet
As he rips off every day another verse,
A call-to-arms of his special trauma
To feed the hungry multitudes
And oppose the many bearing food
With brilliant dancing swordplay
To justify his gift as if he's not the least bit worthy,
As if to prove he's found a home in something higher,
That he has learned what birds and branches know.