Facing a Blank Screen

His own tale, having staggered toward an end
Of sorts and gotten dull, the poet searches for
Some other subject about which to write.
The love thing's done. That was his tale.
The world and the wretches on it writhe
With other sorts of pains. So many wars
Are going on. The noise! The dust! The
Simple horror of the bodies without life,
Their bloody wounds and severed limbs,
The knots of panic-stricken parents tugging
Carts and dumb-struck children anywhere
That is away. The droughts and famines;
Stick-thin men and women stare with
Sunken eyes. Again, the bodies everywhere,
The children seemingly asleep upon the
Ground, the clouds of buzzing flies.
The chained gate at the textile plant.
“We gave your jobs to others, who will
Do them for the sort of money you
Have sitting in a jar,” the falsely
Somber honcho says. “I wish you
Well.” He'll be all right. The others
Have to stay up late to see how far
Their savings go, to find out whether
What they'd get from jobs down at
The discount store will let them keep
Their little homes. A woman goes to
See and feed the shell that held her
Mother once. The shell asks, “Do I
Know your name?” The world bears
A thousand tales, and some of them
Are not so grim. The poet shrugs. He's
Bad at happy. He'll write sad, but that's
Okay. There's lots of it to write.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2016-04-26 at 13:57

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