A cloud, a tree, a blossomed cherry sprig,
a child’s gravestone by a crumbling farm,
which overgrown with grasses and with thick
new sapling oak; its final harvest: barn
wood for some bonused banker’s family room,
—are valued more for twistings of their sense,
or dressing up in some deceptive costume
for a Poets’ Masquerade —their tense
and predicates ignored licentiously,
plain meaning of the words a scornful mess,
their reader’s ear a funhouse mirror free
to bend their uses into uselessness—
raise questions: can the heart be ever spoken?,
and will our words do ever more than hum
emotion?
Morgan Driscoll lives in Connecticut and writes poetry to supplement his income as a commercial artist. He has been published in 30+ journals and anthologies and has made over $100. You can find his work in Humanist Magazine, The Penwood Review, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Constellate Magazine, Caesura, Northwest Indiana Literary Journal, The Avenue, Meetinghouse, Newtown Literary, and many others.
Σχόλια