the poetry nugget

The gazing ball promises good luck to those who tend the garden, the poet chooses her words carefully, with her muse. Time passes, the magic becomes random, fickle; weeds sprout wild, choke blooms, the poet  challenged to fashion bouquets of such rough greenery .

In the midst of the summer garden, the shiny ball, sign of good fortune, reflects sun rays,  moon beams, bends them at odd angles, strands of white light, strings of opalescence, threads of Fate. Time   passes , flowers   gone,  age  and weather tarnish, who will tend the magic?

The-mother-of-all-bombs hit Afghanistan, isn't mother-bomb an oxymoron? While in a meeting to plan a new poetry collection, an exciting beginning, fresh voices to be shared, poems in 12 point font,   a glossy cover, to crack my depressed mood, to widen  my narrow life, to distract me from the dark of American politics. Talk of the call for submissions, start dates,  stapled   versus   bound , decisions made,  they seemed important, until I glanced at my phone, saw the news, hopelessness is like the-mother-of-all-bombs.

My tears swell without release, like waves tease the shore, a watched pot refuses to boil. They marinate my soul, leak around my edges. I fidget with anxiety, bark impatiently, compassionless. Dark as a thunder cloud, a reservoir for another day...

She wrings the fullness from life, restlessly; engulfed, devouring, she licks the sweet, the sweat; words to caress the nape, to choke the breath; salve to her wounds, healing to her soul.

Sometimes the simple, the familiar escape the hard-wiring,  on the run, secreted, tickling, tricking. Praying for neural fire, seconds drag, minutes frantic, drowning in blankness, grasping air, searching for what can be described, but can not be named.