Cyclone, Tempting the Tempest
Yesterday, torrents of tears
Poured down relentlessly
From the corner of the great
Eye in the sky. Today’s dawn
Is pregnant with dark, gray
Omens of nimbus clouds.
Coaxing the cyclone, tempting
The tempest, I anxiously
Await the raging fists of free
Versing or rhyming rain
To hit landfall and pummel
The rusty, corrugated roof
And the green-and-white
Striped window sills of my
By what howling inspiration.
This is the subtlest storm,
The monsoon of metaphors,
The typhoon of muted text
That confounds a seasoned
Weatherman and makes
Its arrival and departure,
Such sudden coming and
Going totally unpredictable!
* * *
“When the Mona Lisa was stolen from the Louvre Museum in Paris in 1911 and was missing for two years, more people went to stare at the blank space than had gone to look at the masterpiece in the 12 previous years.”
—Barbara Cortland, Book of Useless Information
The abovementioned information,
Far from being entirely useless,
Is the incontrovertible proof that
A blank space in all its epic glory
And magnificence–even in the absence
Of a an impressive, intricate golden
Or silver frame–is a work superior
To the vaunted La Gioconda, or any
Other masterpiece for that matter,
Since a blank space grips the viewer’s
Winged fantasy, tighter than a raptor’s
Razor-sharp talons, inspiring it to
Soar in the expanseless blue of sky
With the prismatic eye and hologram
Vision of a denizen of Mount Olympus—
Not through a mere mortal voyeur’s
Keyhole sight. Behold! an epic blank
Space, O flawless and limitless, is
The window of immortality no vain
Masterpiece of art, caged within a
Frame, can ever match or surpass!
* * *
Writing poetry is like jumping into the Grand Canyon.
It’s emotionally and mentally back-breaking.
It’s a dazzling pyrotechnics of sound and sense.
It’s grammatologically and textually breathtaking.
It’s metaphorically suspenseful and cliff-hanging.
It’s infinitely rewarding in discovery and epiphany.
You don’t know what to expect next. Whether it
Will be an immortal success or a monumental bust.
Whether your song will live or die, or both, like
Schrodinger’s quantum cat! At any rate, good luck,
Wordsmith wizard or flip flopping prodigal poetaster.
Bon voyage to your epic omanotopoeaic odyssey!