For Miz Quickly’s Impromptu Poetry Day 30: 30
Where I Come From
Why work so hard
to be good at something
no one else really cares about?
Why spend hours,
sometimes days and weeks,
to tweak ordinary thought
into what might become extraordinary?
Never wanted to be a poet.
Where I come from that’s next to being
useless, a clueless bit of fluff who knows little
of reality, looking for any excuse to excuse
her from the hard, sweaty work in having a real job, or a life.
Yet, I find life
in a breath line, and time
is only a factor when I’m not writing poetry.
Moments hanging heavy, like a soaked woolen blanket
wrapped around a body drained of heat, or a slab
of meat, draped from a hook, looking to be cooked sometime later.
No, I never wanted to be a poet.
Never dreamed of spending sweaty hours
composing words that most don’t want to hear
or get near enough to listen. Somehow afraid that if they do,
it might take them to a place where the face they wear might be exposed,
seen in true light of day as something false, without any real meaning, bereft
of hope, and composed of fleeting desire for fame, riches, or something else
only a poet could find the means of explaining.
Elizabeth Crawford 4/30/13
Notes: Do I need them? Last poem, last day of this madness. Simply want to thank Miz Q, and all of you who joined in and made this a more than memorable experience. I salute you!