He said,
I teach poetry
as an argument.
Similes
squared off
against metaphors,
onamonapia
battles assonance.
Lines wrestle,
punching
with punctuation,
stanza stitches,
bruised ballads.
He said,
I teach poetry
as an argument,
a battle,
a war.
Because words
are worth fighting for,
defending,
and guarding,
until
the last breath.
The garbage of the day swirls between my ears.
Like a tiny tornado, it blocks out the light.
A thousand tiny seeds fall upon the fields.
Discarded plastic rings, newspapers, and coffee grounds cover them over.
Will an original thought ever take root in this refuse?
The grey earth is nearly barren.
Seeds of manipulation have been planted in the same rows.
Over, over, and over again.
Please let the locusts swarm upon me.
Let them clear the rotten fruit from these rows.
Let sweet silence, sweet darkness, fertilize this earth again.
Let God allow me to control the plow and plant the seeds.
Let the scarecrow enter and stand guard over these rows.
They are all I have, and I’m too weak to defend them alone.
I beg for relief, from whoever, whatever, will provide it.
May not only my plot, but fields around the world be bountiful.
I send this prayer up in desperation.
We need this more than ever.
Amen.
