NO RHYMES
No rhymes, ballerina, these are troubled times.
No beams in the lighthouse for the mariner.
The masses are tossing, disturbed on their bed sheets,
Anxieties clogging their pores.
Feel ashamed and angry, ballerina,
Who was I to think I knew the way?
No rhymes, ballerina, and no time,
To tie a ribbon around my heart
And offer it to you, hoping it will suffice.
Sometimes I think, a basket of scorpions would be nice.
The weathermen are on in their funny hats,
Predicting with ten percent certainty
The world will indeed end in ice,
And not in fire, as previously reported.
No rhymes, ballerina, these are troubled times.
For I have learned to know my own mind
And what I’ve found there sends me screaming
Into the portals of the ghastly night.
It helps to know you are out there, ballerina, still devoted to me,
Keeping my dreams in your mind under lock and key.
Good to know you are out there, my muse and my friend,
Walking on the rushing waters, waiting in the howling winds.
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Great imagery... but weatherman with funny hats?
ReplyDeleteBoy I need to write... glad that you are.
Dave
Thanks, Dave! As always I appeciate your comments. I thought of weatherman in funny hats because weathermen in general predict everything as if it is a science. So the funny hat reference was meant to sort of poke fun at their confidence and perhaps even paint them as buffoons. I have nothing against weathermen of course, but this is a poem about uncertainty and about NOT knowing. That's my best interpretation, anyway. -Bruce
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