Friday, April 17, 2015

Day 17 National Poetry Month 2015

Whiskers, Saloon and Haystack from Lisa Ryan
Finding That Needle in a Haystack

The show is starting, again, as it does every morning
and I'm out here to see it because it's April.  I'd be sleeping
otherwise.  Pink whiskers fan out from where the sun

will rise.  Some are clouds, some are jet contrails.  All
are beautiful.  Three birds flutter by in formation.  Lilac
sky gives way to the pale yellow of some marigolds

which in turn becomes the golden glow from saloon lights
in a lonely desert.   And, that's what poetry is for me,
a place alive with noisy chatter, beer glasses clinking,

soft laughter, and a home away from home.  I placed
one foot in front of another and just kept trudging through
the sand and scrub grass of life until a tiny pinprick

of light started growing on the horizon.  Oh, and the thirst!
I imagined the feel of that cold whiskey turning hot as it quenched
my throat, until I picked up a pencil and started writing

my first poem when I was forty years old.  One word, one simile,
one rhyme at a time I staggered to the door, opened it,
and, like Norm walking into Cheers, it shouted my name.

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