Thursday, May 6, 2010

When I heard his poetry...

When I heard his poetry,
I wondered what became of those
poems I hid, tucked away
in different parts of my body.

There was the poem about
scraping my finger as a kid,
hidden on a knuckle,
and a poem about the pencil
lead stuck below my eye
from the third grade.

Everyday I'd pull one out
from my heart, and innocently
wonder where it had
come from... a whisper,
so to speak, that I could
hear so clearly

until, wanting them to come
out just a little better,
I took a "workshop" from
a pro, and didn't write
a poem again.

P.S. If you are wondering what the drawing has to do with the poem... well, don't waste your time. Other than one being done right after the other one, they are very distant relatives... by marriage, perhaps.


Anonymous said...

I loved your poem! H.

Kate Freeman said...

Not everyone will like what you have to say
Some will think your thoughts are too cliché

Others point out your lack of insight
Or over indulgence in something so contrite

How could you be so predictable?
Writing something so abominable

Not a clever catch phase or a memorable word
That one is still reading this seems just absurd

Rhyming couplets how passé
Common stuff of everyday

Gets so old and doesn’t really impress
Lacking a certain sophisticated finesse

Some think that one day I will learn to write with wit
Could just be me, but most critics are full of. . . advice.

Anatomy Lesson and Love