I run fingers across spines,
stacked and pressed on store shelves,
begging for a believer’s benediction.
A poet starves for meanings
rich with connotations,
to pick one’s teeth with,
to seep through dust and motes,
to settle in the belly.
I am fed smooth stony words
that drop and settle.
Long good gulps of great language
slithers down to wet down
green and growing things
I am possible of writing, myself.
But to find an old book,
yellowed and flaked
by touch of multitudes
feasting, feathering pages,
bent-eared from thoughts
that need consideration
because they were new.
Ah, that is a poet’s reason
to scuttle around basements
of old libraries: To trace
a line or two back to their beginnings
before we knew the endings.
Author notes
Prompt: "Don't repeat chapters. The ending of the story will never change."
Carol Desjarlais
A contest entry
- PIF Weekend Quickie by ChunkyC.
800 points, ended November 24, 2008, 14 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 6 of 6
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I really enjoyed reading this poem. It is extremely well written. Several of these lines stood out to me.
A poet starves for meanings
rich with connotations,
to pick one’s teeth with,
to seep through dust and motes,
to settle in the belly.
I really enjoyed the "pick one's teeth with" portion of this stanza. I really liked the image it portrayed. Great write and good luck in the contest.
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thank you for your indepth comments. It really feels good to get such good comments.
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Loved it
C
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ty, dear friend. Inspiration is slowly coming back as I find time for it....and health for it. It takes energy, it does!
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*sigh* your words never cease to amaze me. This is why I have missed them so much. Welcome Back.
Juls
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ty fortyninereaons. I have missed ap as well.
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