Writing poetry in chaotic
times is a delicate sort of
needlepoint. Pull the wrong
thread and the whole thing
could unravel in a knotted
cluster of jumbled loose ends.
A tapestry, spun with words,
to express the zeitgeist of
our current times, one wrong
line and the entire image gets
blurred or marred in a blotchy
canard.
I know how to sew,
I know how to stitch,
I can thread a needle,
I can follow a pattern,
I’ll fix that tear,
but a weaver I am not.
The thread of our lives,
handled by three old crones,
all sharing an eye,
they hold the shears of fate
at our throats as they speculate
on the future.
They never wrote poetry
in troubled times,
they don’t know how the
starting and stopping,
erasing and editing,
of meager and frustrated prose goes.
A fair untroubled hand should
hold the needle as it jabs and
pulls through the fabric of life,
a clean sharp point to puncture
through the designs and craft
works of unambiguous art.
Writing poetry in chaotic times,
is hard…
boob.
Damn it.