My Poems To Burn


My poems are stacked high in the orchard
Drafts, ideas and nearly complete works

Cut poems from yesteryear,
Left Virginia opossum trails drying in the wild

Drug unwilling
And flipped into the bed
Of a ’98 pickup

I’ve arranged them in a great pile, just so,
The weight of which must be well-balanced and secure

For poems, you see,
Can be dangerous stacked together

Why, don’t you remember the father
In The Man From Snowy River
Killed by his poems rolled down the hill?

But it is a good feeling, I tell you
To know you have enough

That there will be poetry to get you through
The longest cold of winter

For you see, I also have poetry stored in the barn too
Milled by the great industrial machine

Where I went in spring and early summer to climb,
Slide and clamber up by-product slopes

And pay $15 per pickup load for discard ends
Where they lay heaped and
Spat out by great Amish machines




3 thoughts on “My Poems To Burn”

  1. My mind is spinning with the full circle of your thoughts here… the smell of chainsaw oil and sawdust, verbs that create heat and light in dark days. Good one…thanks.

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