There's a soft rumbling in the belly of your guitar
reminds me of just how small my hands are--
gentle ends of my finger tips
match the humming inside my lips--
But you'll condescend now with structured chords
you all with your betwitching stringed gourds
I fumble and shake and forget my place
Get lost in the black hole of memory's embrace--
reminds me of how small my hands were
and so the spotlight I would always defer
gentle ache in the belly of my guitar
my true self trapped inside the mason jar.
Reach for the clouds. . .
Tickle your toes. . .
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Ah, 7. The number in question. During this process of developing my first full-length work of prose, and a memoir to boot, I have considered...
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Recently I have been really attempting to delve into what it means to be a poet. Jim Morrison once wanted to be a poet, and look where it go...
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My latest endeavor is to begin reading "Tell it Slant: Writing and Shaping Creative Nonfiction" by Brenda Miller and Suzanne Paula...
Poets United Contributor
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