Poemorama

 
 
There’s a cranky old poetry machine
tucked away in the back of my head.
It hasn’t been running well, of late,
only firing up in short, infrequent bursts
as a last-resort grasp at clarity
when emotions have become too tangled.
It has suffered from disuse,
its metaphors jammed,
flow revving unevenly in halting, coughing word-bursts.
 
Today I’m pulling it from the shed and
gently blowing off the dust.
I’ll gingerly test each lever and pulley,
searching for semblance of rhythm and rhyme,
replacing spark plugs of inspiration,
hoping that love or fury will ignite
to burn out the sludge of apathy.
 
As the machinery sputters back to life,
I’ll haul it down to the underground,
gathering with fellow poets there.
We’ll admire each other’s poetry machines –
the well-seasoned antiques,
the apprehensive newer models,
some shiny and purring,
others bedraggled and choking like mine.
 
Together in our own thirty day exhibition,
we’ll polish,
appreciate,
tinker
and encourage,
overhauling language engines
to gleaming consistency
in a camaraderie of ink-stained hands and hearts.
 
 
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