September 5, 2017



Whoever locked me in this dungeon
threw away the key, but promised to
release me at dawn if I compose
a poem that could smelter from raw ore
the gold that pompous poets insist
are filigreed, interwoven starlight
in every line, a rock opera
clamoring narrative medleys,
a school of goldfish swaggering fins  
like underwater flags, magical
lines to dazzle and delight the senses.
An inner voice turns to laughter
raucously still. It wants to set
the jailer straight: “I have no magic.
They are only words,” but he threatens me
with an early morning breakfast of lead,
that same unchanging lead the alchemist
wishes had turned to gold. I scribble
my best while the firing squad waits.


1 comment:

  1. How absolutely wonderful Sal! You've done an amazing job with the wordle - intensely creative - I love this poem - it tells such a vivid story and wow - used smelter as a verb right off! Totally cool!
    I really enjoy reading your words Sal. Truly, you are gifted.

    thanks for playing the wordle this week :)