Wednesday, June 4, 2014

Sestina for the Middle of the Week

I am too tired to write a poem today.
The earth is spinning slowly on its gears
And I am slouching toward the afternoon
With dreams that whisper through the sky like clouds
That sometimes cluster, sometimes dissipate—
So clouds and flowers and stars and I all fade.

The color in my eye begins to fade.
I shall not be about the town today.
My strength, my will, my thought—all dissipate
While still the slow unfolding of the gears
Cranks on and cloaks my brain with sundry clouds:
I shall not write a poem this afternoon.

Come walk with me sometime this afternoon
Along the stream where yellow violets fade
And emerald crickets crouch beneath the clouds.
Shall anyone intrude on us today?
Their work consumes them, turning at the gears
That stultify and kill: joy dissipates.

My energy and goals all dissipate
Before the tedium of afternoon
And staring into space, I sense the gears
Enjambed and cannot care, I fade
Into a dream of nothingness today.
The far horizon veiled with rising clouds.

I used to think these moods were clouds
That I could just ignore; they’d dissipate
If only I could fake it for today
Like counterfeiting time, the afternoon
A currency to squander lest it fade,
Crushed to nothing by the heedless gears.

A field of daisies—simple petaled gears,
That dip and wave in meadows while the clouds
Sail overhead—great thoughts that soon will fade
And at the sunset’s coming dissipate
All time’s been whiled away; the afternoon
Is gone. It never comes again: Today.

Grind on then, gears and hours, and dissipate
The gloomy clouds lingering all afternoon.
Dreams fade. And still…I have no poem today

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