There's
No place for a plow
On a dirt road in winter.
No place for a 'slicker
With boots made of suede.
No hope of an exit
If snow drifts grow thicker
Than silly bald tires
That slip in the shade.
No time for the hurry
That peppers her hours
Senselessly dragging her
Closer to death.
A place for the silence
And stillness that towers
Above her. Around her
Within every breath.
A place then for thoughts
But thoughts without action.
A place then for poems
For wordplay, and rhyme.
A time for indulgence
For studied abstraction
Without guilty conscience
Or knowledge of time.
A dirt road unplowed
Defies the Achiever
It sets her a path
On a less traveled lane
Away from the mantra,
The great Life-Deceiver,
That all is Production
Provision
And Pain.
Nothing bonds a group like willingness to publicly post a bad poem. Clearly this isn't it. Next. (Wonderful. A perfect beginning for "Poets re:" and a joy with coffee in the kitchen and snow on the sill.)
ReplyDeleteNicely done indeed. Enforced leisure can be a struggle. Not morbid at all, despite the obsession with death (perhaps just my reading).
ReplyDeleteGood structure, though.