Sunday, February 21, 2010

New Poem: Mystery Reporter

Mystery Reporter
here's a news-flash for you:
either nothing is amazing, or everything is.
either the unbelievable never happens, or it's going on all the time.

poets, you see, don't quit being poets, alive or dead.
prophets don't get to retire.
troubadours aren't ever gone when their verses are still being read.
coals and ashes, when stirred, remember the fire.

one crocus doesn't make it spring, but it's one thing spring
won't get started without,
and for want of one snowflake, and avalanche would never slide.
an interstate will go from point A to point B, missing everything
on the old country route,
and a chrysalis whispers no secrets of the butterfly burgeoning inside.

thngs you can see in daylight change their forms and natures
in the dark,
and shadows only grow when light from some source flows.
the most brilliant flowers are never seen, and pass away
without a mark,
and birds flock as one, but how they choreograph their wingdance,
nobody knows.

the sun burns across rippling waters,
heliographing hieroglyphics that can't be translated,
only red in the moment before they change,
explaining things that in language can't be communicated.

every leaf on every tree is a verse in an unending song;
even in their falling, they sing; and, on the ground,
still they sigh, brittle papyri, underneath your feet.

in a universe that rings like a bell,
what further evidence of a Divine Hand
would you demand
when you can't even understand
the wonders that cascade around you--
a world at your fingertips, and
yet so much slips
through your mind like water
sluicing through a sieve,
because it takes an uncomfortable risk
to believe . . . .

don't wish for myths or miracles,
your brains are too tight to contain them
because every bit of knowledge you gain
gets rejected if you can't explain them
or turn a profit on them.

either nothing is amazing, and the unbelievable never occurs . . . .
oh, but it IS--it's going on all the time.
i'm just a reporter, i didn't make the news,
i'm just rying
in feeble meter and fumbling rhyme
to focus your attention
on what you're missing
all the time.

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