Never mind my excuses. Here are a handful of poems to honour the month.
Twisted words fall from open mouth, as poet asks for truth.
It comes and goes like a radio song between the ads.
What is it for anyway? Who is it for? Who speaks truth
when lies suffice in the day to day? The poet is he
who pans for truth in the streaming words. What shimmers? What glows?
What will the water bring to the surface there? A small truth
embedded in a tangle of lies, sharp enough to cut
through the bullshit. Will it feed you? Will you carry it home?
Will it save you from yourself? Will it save you from the world?
IT IS WHAT IT IS
(prompt: loveless love/break-up)
Don't hold on too tight or you will leave bruises on tender flesh.
It is what it is, though there is room to grow, or wither.
The moment weighs you down lest the wind carry you away.
You must play the game or practice laughter. Neither
will help you be the best. You can still lose it all in a throw.
To dream of loss now is to be aware of limits. Eat, dance and sing
anyway. It is what it is. It was what it was. It will be what
it will be. You are not as important as you think. You are everything.
THE WICKS' SACRIFICE
(prompt: remix of Dickinson poem, 930)
The poets live on light
but wicks burn out.
Vital parts they stimulate.
Each the sun of their age,
each work disseminating
The wicks' sacrifice:
Light lives on poets.
And the rest of us survive the night.