April Is Poetry Month
What to do when
Shakespeare is dead, and
they say poetry is too, and
all my moribund metaphors are dead
just because she ran off to
a festival without me, because
I am not very exciting, so maybe
in contemplation, I could
assume a poem could be found
on unlikely charming tongues
on ice cream cones, and I
could lick it. Place
words on feathers that
tickle the fickle. Let me
make the loop of the river
spell
splash blue ink
for me. Hello,
for you many
I’d say
storm out of yourself, you yourself
a thunder whisper in a flash
in your moment of
passion flooding
momentously drizzling drops
of salty inklings, fresh
up a creek for a beaver
in his safe house.
Trees fall
heard. Who’s
there, here
who calls
to be right
write
in a pickle. Read
me with syrup
under a maple
over a river
with a pickle
resuming a crunch
many picnics
in many words
— Douglas Gilbert
