Poetry

The target of poetry is the soul. The goal is to attract the soul like a flower attracts a butterfly. But sometimes it is a thistle on which the butterfly lands. Who can predict the pattern of a butterfly’s flit? Poetry changes our flit plans, not always predictably.





Thursday, January 01, 2009

Almost

Almost

Electricity buzzes
Sixty cycles per second
Like an angry wasp
flying round my head
No, in my head
Wasps, dangerous
Move my hands. . . can't.
Swat this buzzing
Someone. . . that's me screaming
Legs and feet, wet
Can't step
Can't make it stop
Hot wire bright red to white
Snap, like a fuse, fall away
On all fours
Right calf cramped like a rock
Jerking like a Shaker Holy Spirit full
Praying like a repentent sinner
Never, never do that again
And like a saint
Oh thank you, thank you God
That I can go home to my children.


Written about a real accident that almost turned fatal.

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