Word Stringer

“Any great poem is one you wrote anyway.”--Richard Hugo

Those who put words

together

one after another

are not writers

image manufacturers

poets

whatever is believed

the occupation

or avocation may be

the real creators

are the readers

who bring their own

mental images to the paper

the pages

the screens

to the voices aloud

bouncing wall to wall

or dancing across the prairie

like light rain

No

rich and often poor words

bring thunderstorms

drop hail and tornadoes

inside heads

to flash their lightning

across inner eyes

the ones that cannot be

examined by an optometrist

until after brains

have exploded from heads

when they become invisible mush

for the dead to digest

To enjoy them

stay alive

to prepare for the apocalypse

when dictionaries are burned

sending smoke aloft

unreadable by everyone

except Indians in the movies

or destroyed by noon-day cannons

their loud utterances

demanding rest or nourishment

The King proclaims

only what is accepted

by those who are woolly caterpillars

in line for the next bush

unable to see anything

except the next crawly butt

Stop that at once

search all the words

being fed by the spoonfuls

to find the depth

of the gift of creation

Now blow that up

Mr. Hubble

Barry G. Wick