Yogi Berra said, “The game is not over till it is over.” Well, apparently neither is a creative work, like a poem.
Although I was supposed to be working on other things, four poems I had recently posted came back to me, haunting my sleep and burning my insides (just like pepperoni pizza sometimes does) to tell me I had posted them too soon.
The poems were undone and unpolished. After feverishly reworking the offending lines, (I seem to work best when I am feverish) the verses have reshaped themselves. They no longer disturb my dreams and I can honestly say I can now enjoy pepperoni pizza without cringing in pain.
The poems are also so different from the originals they seem completely new. Oh, yes, I have learned my lesson: It ain’t never over till it’s over. 🙂
Night plays games with sounds:
a hound dog’s lament
curls into haze.
Darkling owl songs are spent,
before the music fades;
a new stream of audio appears to tease,
muffled laughter from beyond the trees.
Night plays games with light:
Winged dancers in shadows
beneath the bright moon glow;
miniature galaxies of blue-white stars orbit the holly below—
and twinkling messages vie
with amorous fireflies.
Night plays games with time:
So many memories replayed, favorite
films whose plots I’ve memorized,
yet watch enthralled, and believe the lies.
The moon has crossed the sky, running
from the sun—as it has always done,
yet I watch enthralled, and feign surprise.