I have lost my piano hand. The banter on Saturn rings in my ears
(that’s a terrible joke). A few of the handkerchiefs smell like
operas. During the night, the ghosts arrive to try on my socks,
and to read whatever book I am reading backwards to me.
I have found a violin hand. Tonight I will camp out “under the stars”
with Quixote and Pooh Bear.
The vagrant blue in the November fields. I have that. At least I have
that. The lost arms of flowers, though nothing weeps. And the only
color is the electrical structures and the graffiti wire.
There is dire in blue, directly in this wandering. I will work out the
equations at a later date.
At this rate, by the end of the year, the moon will have enough to buy
a helicopter. And have that ankle looked at.
Silence likes to doodle, intentional as clouds.
In a sweater, the handlebars are autumn, even as it rains.
While riding a bike.
Part of it is the dust from stars. Some of it rolls in the ground,
like a season.
Take a bow, ripple with the sea. Each leaf before it catches hold
of the earth
Says hello.
A November Manifesto
Published
This poem is alive with vibrant imagery. And the first stanza made me chuckle a few times. “…the ghosts arrive to try on my socks.” Well done.
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I’m very glad you liked the humor. Thank you.
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I’ve got no idea what’s going on here, Bob and frankly it doesn’t much matter. I’m just on a wild roller coaster of images and I’m hopping on for another ride; wheeeeeeeeeeee
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Thanks John, that’s actually a perfect response to this poem. I’m glad you had fun reading it. Awesome!
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Bob, as always, adore your mixed metaphor and even (picking from between my teeth to study again the half-chewed joke of Saturn), think, hmm, that ain’t so terrible after all.
Good work!
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Thanks Nick! Glad you enjoyed it.
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It’s all about “the vagrant blue in the November fields.”
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Thanks Andy. Glad you liked that line. I thought I touched on something when that line came to me.
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