I’ll fuck this poem up if I so choose,
I’ll drop a foot, my rhymes a stinking mess,
a metaphor so trite, so crap. I’ll lose
my reader’s eye in wrenched and anxious stress.
I’ll make them read it back, each broken line
of regimented men that stand and die
before the guns, and tread on every mine
they cross, but still, they’ll fly their banner high
on ground that’s punctuated red and white-
the only summer flowers left in bloom.
On ground where fir trees block the searing light
and earth is cool in bamboo thicket’s gloom.
On ground that’s crowned by dragon tree and oak,
On ground that’s free from fire, blood and smoke.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: