Poetry was every melody the songbird painted
Drowned in the ocean roar of a busy highway,
Beauty swallowed by monotonous familiarity,
The grandfather clock whose musical chords
Become another piece of unseen furniture.
The Giant Book of Poetry sat on my shelf,
Hugged by Jane Austen and John Steinbeck,
Both unread, an icon of ought and should.
To know grief by its perfume,
Feel melancholy puncture my lungs,
Pierce my stomach,
Despair close its fist around my throat.
Depression is a corruption of the plasma
Ink is blood:
I am wired up to these pages
So that I might live,
Grabbing pens and finding fresh veins.
When the bruised and battered heart beats away sleep,
When the eyes hemorrhage tears until they’re anemic,
All I can do is talk to that cardiac monitor
That sits on that shelf; it speaks back,
Each word a pulse enunciating my rhythm.
My heart’s hardened leather splinters at its touch,
But each line is cool water
For the lover wounds as she soothes.
I lay my head upon the stanza’s bared chest;
The strength of its beat quickens my own.
Poetry is the moon slow dancing with the Milky Way,
The day breathing sunset lullaby to starry summer sky.
It is thunder becoming still to ask the rain clouds:
Why are you crying?