What a lazy seamstress the sun can be
to embroider the sky with her ragged gold
around cotton clouds clumped so messily—
yet, the prettiest patchwork quilt to behold.
If By Design
The angels are spitting once again
from that raincloud overhead,
but whether in spite from some sin
or to bless the garden bed
I cannot yet begin to know,
but it is quite a curious thing
to think their spite might even bestow
by design an inevitable blessing.
And so I begin to wonder
about Lucifer and his disdain—
did he want lightning and thunder
only to grow the crops with rain?
And if all behave as so designed,
what of Man and his battle lines?
What of the fermenting fruits of his mind—
does angelic scorn grow the best wines?
I have heard certain poets read their acclaimed poems
to a crowd who clapped like biblical rains
for poems that seemed tottering, termite-eaten totems
propped up only by many PR campaigns.
With headwinds from a publisher or university
vouching loudly with flative-voices meanwhile,
the poems rang hollow (neither heartfelt or witty)
and I knew them not fit even for the brush pile.
They treat some poets like they are the mighty masts
for upholding the sails of their literary fleet,
and I thought myself seemingly one of the outcasts
who felt oddly marooned at each meet-and-greet—
because it seemed a shame that so much timber
should be cut and stripped and thinned to render
works that could not spark a single ember
when the bonfire of hearts should need tinder.