Traditions

My sun is made of vellum.  They accuse

It.  But what if this is so?  It sends out flares

That scare away eclipses since their Muse

Is garbled freedom.  I prefer the stairs

Of Jacob to defamers’ ladders for

Wild salmon and the loosest leaps for spawn.

My moon is made of parchment from the lore

Of distant pasts.  My critics think it’s wan.

They want just shredded paper in a pout

Of anarchy.  Papyrus with the lines

Of Sappho on it is the type of shout

I want, or even hieroglyphic signs.

  Destruction like R. Mutt’s is not for me.

    Those sculptures made of iambs are more me.

~ Phillip Whidden

by phillipw | Aug 1, 2024 | Uncategorized | 0 comments