ONE OF THESE THINGS IS NOT LIKE THE OTHERS…

In the wake of the Christmas rush, I’ve been savoring my copy of FROM THE TOWER, the anthology of poetry written by my local group.  One snowy afternoon, as I was contentedly flipping through this smooth and polished collection, I turned a page and unexpectedly encountered one of my own poems.  An image something like this flashed in my brain:

I wonder if all poets and artists feel this way, like everyone else’s pieces are clear and deep and perfect while their own are… (not sure exactly what word I’m searching for here).  Anyway, the experience inspired the following poem, written in FREE VERSE.  Free verse is exactly what it sounds like – poetry unconstrained by rules or structure.  Surprisingly,
I find this form to be one of the most difficult, like trying make paper mâché without a balloon – wet, pasty strips curling and twisting in the wind.  But in this case, nothing else in my poetic toolbox seemed to fit.

FLABBERGASTED

I’m relaxed at last
into a groove
of demure words
waltzing over the page
when out springs
a garish gypsy
in bright scarves
and bare feet
banging on
a tambourine
Our eyes meet;
she knows secrets
that I have told no one
She twirls past
bewildered poems
in tuxedos and gowns
and steals away
leaving them
to wonder
what just crashed
through the ballroom

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