Polyhymnia Wears Knit in the Summertime
My muse is barefoot and pregnant
Dropping ideas faster than the eggs of the
Great North American salmon.
They pile up around me like caviar in a dish.
Spilling over the sides,
I try to gather them up.
One story spawns seven others,
Then thoughts intrude,
Sentences tumble out of my brain
Colliding with phrases, words, my fingers cannot keep
Up with fasterandfasterI try to recordthinkjust
catchwordwordwordword...
I wonder if she'll ever nap or
Pause to take a breath.
Then, I can stop,
Dip my mother-of-pearl spoon
Turning and twisting it softly...
Scooping up a mountain.
Grains of sand fall by the wayside
Black and amber,
Pearly gray and apricot colored.
Miniscule pale orange.
I spread on a cracker and taste.
My yearning tongue rolls and tosses and darts about
Catching the melting taste of salty creme fraiche
Tangled with angel hair memories
Tiny and tantalizing
Exploding
Drowning
Curdled cream undertow pulling me down--
Once, bartenders gave it away just to get rid of it.
WARNING: Severe over-fishing can deplete species.
Mismanagement brings repercussions.
...just then
Donna Reed pedals her basketed bike down St. Charles Avenue--
her silver-white hair
peeks out from under a red paisley scarf
tied at the nape,
Swirled patterns suspended in ~~a~~~~breeze~~~~
float over the pink sweater tossed across
the shoulders of a teal-green knit dress she wears--
and smiles at me.
And my God, how do you expect me to write.
Dropping ideas faster than the eggs of the
Great North American salmon.
They pile up around me like caviar in a dish.
Spilling over the sides,
I try to gather them up.
One story spawns seven others,
Then thoughts intrude,
Sentences tumble out of my brain
Colliding with phrases, words, my fingers cannot keep
Up with fasterandfasterI try to recordthinkjust
catchwordwordwordword...
I wonder if she'll ever nap or
Pause to take a breath.
Then, I can stop,
Dip my mother-of-pearl spoon
Turning and twisting it softly...
Scooping up a mountain.
Grains of sand fall by the wayside
Black and amber,
Pearly gray and apricot colored.
Miniscule pale orange.
I spread on a cracker and taste.
My yearning tongue rolls and tosses and darts about
Catching the melting taste of salty creme fraiche
Tangled with angel hair memories
Tiny and tantalizing
Exploding
Drowning
Curdled cream undertow pulling me down--
Once, bartenders gave it away just to get rid of it.
WARNING: Severe over-fishing can deplete species.
Mismanagement brings repercussions.
...just then
Donna Reed pedals her basketed bike down St. Charles Avenue--
her silver-white hair
peeks out from under a red paisley scarf
tied at the nape,
Swirled patterns suspended in ~~a~~~~breeze~~~~
float over the pink sweater tossed across
the shoulders of a teal-green knit dress she wears--
and smiles at me.
And my God, how do you expect me to write.
Labels: Kathy Keil, On Poetry