Poet Commentaries

My Little Ditty

so much lung capacity
to blow smoke
dug up by a chain gain,
hoisted by a chain hoist
the whole operation manned
by people bound;
the pattern of the links
twenty four and seven.
there is always dross,
the stink and stench of it
has always been smelted,
the clink and clamour of it
is a marching song earworm
that echoes long after
steel toe boots are matted
and the slippers donned.


there is freedom in earworms,
in singing someone else’s song
for in the ring of shovel on stone
the drum roll of chain on hoist
there is an accompaniment of
clashing Cymbals and Trombone
all thanks to the bronze and iron age

an age only dreamed of by people
scratching at weeds, felling trees
and rolling away rocks
with sticks and sharp stones
building houses with fired mud
or skinned and tanned leather

there is a chipper and chirp
to the sparrow’s song
awakening the town at first light
the chain reaction of dawn’s spread,
a mirror image of dusk’s silencing
as the last ruffled feather
settles on perch and pillow

we are free to compose our songs
to write an ode to the weeds
and the gravity that weighs us;
laughter and lilt to callous and bruise
every octave is open
whole rests available in bondage
and busy little eighth notes
that dip down and deep to hum;
until we have the capacity
to understand the busy composition
of perfect rest and nothing.

from bronze to steel
to tin and cardboard
always there are composers
who cover their ears at the sound
of mall door’s opening,
who struggle to walk contrary
to the other marching shoppers;
who cringe at creak of hinges
on cardboard pizza boxes
mining in turn their own earworms
of “na na na, I can’t hear you”
or “sticks and stones….”

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