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Saturday, August 8, 2009

A Monk in the Marketplace

Sitting quietly, watching
the hummingbird highway
in our backyard sky,
speed freak avians
zipping and diving,
narrowly avoiding collision,
not so much rivals,
more contestants in the
labor to survive.

They feed or die, those
tiny-hearted birds,
twenty beats per second.
Mandevilla bloom
becomes their arena,
long beaks dueling for
one flower, until they
spy our four-hole feeder,
competitors no more.

Sitting quietly, watching
the laptop screen
on our backyard table,
variable speed poets
warping and weaving,
neatly creating their art.
Not so much competitors,
more partners in the
need to express.

They write or fade, those
big-hearted bards, one hundred
April images per hour.
Poetic Asides
becomes their stage,
longing for what’s due
their flowing thoughts, yet
loving each other’s works,
competitors no more.

1 comment:

  1. The line "speed freak avians" just made my day. ;) The analogy's a fresh one. The "four-hole feeder" is the audience, and there's not a big lot of it when it comes to poetry, as compared to prose, but poets can share the stage, yes? In the physical world, that could mean waiting for your turn to read onstage and 'perform' your piece. ;)

    It's my good fortune to have found your poetry site. I'm having a grand time here, reading, reading, reading. "The Carnival Came to Town" is my top favorite, for all the details, so vivid that not only the carnival but Wisconsin came to my room. Cheers.