A little while back, RT fell on a concrete patio and fractured a rib. These things, painful as they are, can focus our energies and get us moving again. They can also drive us a little crazy, which might not be a bad thing, either.
Which brings us to tonight’s set of poems (and by the way, the rib seems to be healing nicely). All poems have an appointment with an anonymous meaning coach, which they may or may not keep. RT isn’t sure about this set, sidetracked, perhaps, by certain siren calls. The coach, in the meantime, taps its fingers loudly, as it should; we don’t want our words to be mish-mash.
The bargain isn’t easily struck. Each poem has its own inner necessity or logic, which is the meaning that it offers. But like the electric guitars that RT was listening to while he composed, such steely structure is offset by shape, color, tuning, and a combination of visual and musical drama. Poems can give little guidance as they emerge, or maybe all that is needed. It’s about what sounds good. And what means something (but what?).
three shorts #3
your fractured rib is;
mind forgotten, tottering.
death laughs; you laugh, gasp.
the boy next door curses—
proud, the cell-phone hum-a-lums
you back. buzz, beer bee!
before you, being
and ere February pass,
your car eyes. fat snow.
© 2017, The Rag Tree
Photo: 1990 Yamaha Pacifica 921. Freebird from Madrid, Spain. WikiCmns. CC BY-SA 2.0.