|Baby at Play, by Thomas Eakins, 1876.|
I fear expectations that I write extraordinary
poems for year’s end and for the new year, too,
creating blocks on blocks and more so.
Building with blocks instead of ideas—
with concrete objects instead of abstract—
I start with roads, add shoes, tires, brakes and drums.
And next thing I know I have Rodas and Rhodes
on straightaways, and they don’t hesitate
to shoo off anything that tires or breaks.
The drums' beat keeps builders moving so fast
It’s a blast dropping, breaking active verbs,
characters and unmotivated plots.
Whew. Playing with blocks is most dangerous
when inside the house, brain, heart, threshold of
fear, window sills and medicine cabinets—
where I store my preferred daze and numbness.
Whew. That was before. What if I wrote loveinstead of fear? Then how could blocks be near?
Posted in Poets United Poetry Pantry #183.