Some Poems

No one can define the limits of a poem but we should all test them.

                           Some Poems

            Some poems should be short,
                    cutting out all words
                    that add no meaning.
         They should seek to end the day,
          as soon as possible, least delay,
             like a cat tucking in his paws,
           wrapping his tail about himself,
               miming a tiny roaring yawn
               and going to sleep silently.

                     While other poems
             should shoot high and wide,
                 dashing here and there,
           attempting everything possible
                and several impossibles.
             All this should be achieved
             within the narrow confines
                 of a fireworks factory
         invaded by rainbow hued parrots
                   smoking large cigars,
              tramping hot ash and tracks
                      in the gunpowder, 
                    celebrating the end
                  of a dreadful concert
              (in the factory parking lot)
                 of drunken trombones,
                    tubas on death row,
           sinister oboists plotting a coup
                       and cymbalists
                   doing untimely work.
        The conductor snapped his baton
                       in twain and fled,
               his senses long departed,
                  driven mad by scores
               of measureless freedom.

Written at least 30 years ago. I visit it every year and polished it slightly. It’s like old stairs with the treads worn where the feet have passed so many times. I am very fond of it and I owe it a debt of gratitude. This was the first time I allowed the raging insanity, that I do quite well containing, to surface and run the show. The narrator is an unreliable source of information and everything he says is suspect.

I wrote the first paragraph as a separate small poem and then asked myself, “If this is some poems, what are other poems?” It was difficult to limit this poem once the floodgates were opened. It got big. Over the years I beat it into its present form and this is as small as he would go. There is only so much unregulated departure from reality a mind can sustain and absorb. I promised myself then that I would return to bat shit crazy land and I have, in at least five or six other demented poems. They will make their appearance.