spoken words
even the poems I keep quiet
pocket tucked or boxed shoved
beneath my bed or sofa or
where ever I find a place to sleep
are spoken inside me at least
but the ones I share out loud
whether with you or you
and you in the back of the room too
are my soul’s necessary breathing
winning out over my flawed humanity’s
willingness to deceive destiny
time and again
begin the poem with metaphor
for something else
for something missing
ghosts for example lack the body
to complete the cycle back to life
they linger in short frequency
deep pooled gathered memories
and scrawl the patterns
that day and night make
with the wobble gravity
we spin around each moment of
they whisper you can go
further than now and
still enjoy the ride
take your hands off the wheel
put your feet up
listen to the wail of the wind
and bleed the carve out loud
you never know when
someone might recognize a song
you’ve kept quiet
pocket tucked or
otherwise boxed and shoved
beneath a bed or sofa
like me
because
when I speak
I know
a quiet poet
isn’t free
EJR ©
poem 140 of a poem a day for 2012 (NaPoWriMo28)
Photo credit: Dan Wilcox
