Sunday, February 20, 2011
Robert Bly has said he likes to write one bad poem before breakfast each morning.
One Bad Poem
Bare feet beg to levitate
above the cold floor
this bone-chiller
of a morning.
Heating unit quit
in the night, no warning.
Indoor breezes,
marsh ghosts gathering
for a reunion.
The heating people
will call back
soon.
Speed-dressing in bulky layers
I smile
at feeling like a sausage.
I have a special talent
for cheering myself up,
a true gift
when life delivers
unwelcome surprises,
little ones
like a cold morning
with no heat.
Some big ones are harder
but I find a way,
after tears and some time,
to rebound to the sound
of my own
laughter.
One Bad Poem
Bare feet beg to levitate
above the cold floor
this bone-chiller
of a morning.
Heating unit quit
in the night, no warning.
Indoor breezes,
marsh ghosts gathering
for a reunion.
The heating people
will call back
soon.
Speed-dressing in bulky layers
I smile
at feeling like a sausage.
I have a special talent
for cheering myself up,
a true gift
when life delivers
unwelcome surprises,
little ones
like a cold morning
with no heat.
Some big ones are harder
but I find a way,
after tears and some time,
to rebound to the sound
of my own
laughter.
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