Poetry is my empty hand
That grasps at the handle.
The world lacks that!
It’s hot, it’s cold
Or slippery like a criminals handshake
This eel annoited with thieves oil
Is in my empty hand
But then my image escapes
From where I was with
Handles afixed, tipped over-side
Maybe left beside
Or in the right place with the wrong meter stick
To beat said criminal with
And so I pull out simile to affix my stick
For the handle, that doesn’t matter,
For living things are real, and only have two eyes
Maybe a hand of my mind, perhaps to grasp
My intention to surprise and alight upon my sight
What likeness I’ve handled to pass onto
To table, or floor, for something amore.
My Poetry, my parabolic spirituality focused...
Grasps, handles, fixes, places, and picks up
My Emptiness fills my hand and replaces
The hot, the sweet and sour, the salty, or bad sting
I fill my cup, with sweeter words to sustain
I browbeat it, but it’s said, shouted, and I saddened I’ve had to say
“I Love you Dad,” three times,
Maybe there wasn’t enough poetry in his world...
He knew how to put into his empty head.
