Afternoon poems are different.
While nights speak of darkness
and warn of mornings
afternoons only know that they are hot
and should have worn a hat.
Afternoon poems meander through the brain like old rivers
remembering old floods
but too trapped in yesterday to want
the rush of young foreign streams.
Afternoon songs are mumbled songs --
snatches of showtunes with teatime philosophy
and no more memorable
than a friendly round of Name That Tune.
Afternoon poems do nothing for the soul
when dusk brings on its shadows
watch the mind plead for just one small touch
I haven't been writing poetry for a while (got bored with myself, to be honest), but in honour of National Poetry Month I thought I'd pull up something from the notebook archives just for... well, I was going to say fun, but does this qualify as fun?
Maybe. I guess.
This one's part of a longer cycle called Life on the Small that, according to my notes, was written back in 2005. The rest of the poems in the group are uneven -- I'm being charitable there -- and from the style I can guess that I was writing at the patio table on a hot summer day. And, apparently, didn't bother to go back and tighten things up afterwards.
Ah well. There you go. The verbal equivalent of the five minute doodle you usually see here. If you're desperate for more of this (whatever this actually is), just hit the poems label below or on the sidebar.