(A Golden Shovel)
We real cool. – Gwendolyn Brooks
There’s just something about the way we
groove, move and mold our words in real
time; rhythm and rhyme our own cool
-ing hearts. Something ’bout the way we
fight, give the world a one-two punch, left
-right, send our souls off to flight school
with a phrase. The still, small ways we
unearth, rebirth old caged bones lurk
-ing in closets; stay up unreasonably late
stirred by coffee and ink. Some days we
may think it’s not worth it, muse on strike
and shrike-stolen syllables gone straight
when we commanded them crooked. We
scribble anyway, scramble to scribe-sing
the thing that might free us, from sin
and singularity and singed scars. We
fill jars with fireflies and lies and thin
parchment promises, a place to be-gin
to be something more, stored. Then we
loose it all to our own salt sea, the jazz
jamboree of a falling moon. We jejune
our way through, stay new, known. We
cross our sword-pens and hope to die
and then we reach the end, too soon.
Prompted by Poetic Asides April PAD Challenge, day 19.
You can read Gwendolyn Brooks’ full poem here.
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