spewing on yellow paper
Posted: July 7th, 2015, 4:53 pm
at times I fear one day I will go the well
try to draw a fresh bucket of inspiration
but the poetry will have dried up
a victim of drinking too much, I fear
my ideas might be finite, prone
to the dessication that comes
when you stack years into a tall pile
exposed to the elements teetering in the wind
should I worry about maturation
that dying spark that can wither on the vine
the noncompliance of fresh vegetables
that feel you've neglected their well being
oh well ....( pun intended )
if this is my last act of being clever
at least let me go out with some kind of explosion
allow me a really great week of heirloom poetry to savor
should I be worried about this thinking.....nah,... hell
Ive got me a divining rod, don't like to brag about it
or anything, but I'm a an ancient dowser from virginia
got a forked stick lodged in my head
once I locate the new liquids I'll dig
an artesian ink well, tap into a new cache
of cold filtered ideas and poetry will rain down
like lovestruck hash oil, struck by an old prospector
with a mad look in his eye
a tar-taped mattock in his hands swinging at the air,
a leather-necked wildcatter spitting new prayers....
the spewing of words on yellow paper
try to draw a fresh bucket of inspiration
but the poetry will have dried up
a victim of drinking too much, I fear
my ideas might be finite, prone
to the dessication that comes
when you stack years into a tall pile
exposed to the elements teetering in the wind
should I worry about maturation
that dying spark that can wither on the vine
the noncompliance of fresh vegetables
that feel you've neglected their well being
oh well ....( pun intended )
if this is my last act of being clever
at least let me go out with some kind of explosion
allow me a really great week of heirloom poetry to savor
should I be worried about this thinking.....nah,... hell
Ive got me a divining rod, don't like to brag about it
or anything, but I'm a an ancient dowser from virginia
got a forked stick lodged in my head
once I locate the new liquids I'll dig
an artesian ink well, tap into a new cache
of cold filtered ideas and poetry will rain down
like lovestruck hash oil, struck by an old prospector
with a mad look in his eye
a tar-taped mattock in his hands swinging at the air,
a leather-necked wildcatter spitting new prayers....
the spewing of words on yellow paper
