Atomic algorithms do
the soul not a lick
of civility—
these buzzy bites
aren’t earmarked for matrimony
to my holy pivot.

Nah,
it is wilderness
which soothes the ruffled soul—

currently an epicenter of dissonance,
internal hums crash against external
snubs, everything folds
though I plead with it not to—

but here, here in the wild
the wild of words, of worlds,
the truth is not so juicy;
poetry makes herself a
home under the glossy stars.

The trees are the poets here,
spinning oxygen verses
detoxifying ear drums,
internal rhythms which last.

I launch from the rope swing
for a swim through waters of
absurd happy dwellings
forgotten by the modern
man, the scholarly woman.

I’ve got wide absurdity
knitted right into my bones,
adult, yes—only sometimes;
the other times, I can’t deal
with the arbitrariness
of such word, such world as that.

The tin whistle sounds
from the lush tree tops,
beckons for supper
on dreams and rope swings.


The reader brings his or her own perspective to a poem and creates meaning.

 

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