Seems like years. Today I wanted to write a poem I would never write, a poem I wouldn't have written if it weren't for this month. Someone at a reading I went to said "I like to write with a lot of imagery." I fail to write with a lot of imagery. I decided to write a poem that is nothing but imagery, even if it is about the subject I write on most.
p.s., i'm still up for the "poem i would never write" challenge if anyone has suggestions. only seven poems left in the month.
My heart is a dusty attic long abandoned
with one old leather chest up against a wall.
A few old photographs inside, no names
written on the backs. My heart is
a great hall with roaring fires,
long tables laden with food,
seating for everyone. My heart is a
crystal lake reflecting her beloved
sky; my heart gets tired of pushing
that old cart around the park and sits
down on a bench to rest a while
and talk to herself. My heart surfaces
to blow a giant plume out her blow-hole,
takes a huge breath and then
dives a mile deep and won't
come up again until next winter.
My heart is a young woman who lept
from the top story and found not death
but a whole new life she would have loved
except she misplaced it somewhere,
probably with her keys. My heart
goes barefoot and splashes in rain puddles,
is a lone buzzard circling, a bronze bell ringing
at a stately funeral attended only
by gravediggers and rain.