A POEM OF QUESTIONS

A friend says I should write more poetry.

It’s been awhile.  There’s been

death,

discouragement,

flooding,

regime changes,

shear laziness,

But who am I and what do I have to say? 

And who would care?

Is there a poem I could write that would

touch

or transform

or move anyone?



The old adage is: write what you know. 



So, do I write about the gnarly sycamore tree

which, though it dons a camouflage cover,

is always spotted where water christens its roots? 

Or do I describe the delicate Pink Lady Slipper orchid,

whose enigmatic, masculine form springs only from soil

made acid by

worn sandstone,

broken shale,

time?

Should my poem ask the reader,

“Did you know you can read the land this way?”

But who cares, really?  Isn’t land just for

buying and selling

building upon

or harvesting from?

Is it a waste of words for a poem to beckon others

to consider life (aren't people too busy to read poetry?)

on a park bench,

a trail

or a bridge above

a lyrical stream?

Should the poem invite them to stop listening,

just for those few moments in time

to the voices of culture,

of family,

or the lies,

they tell

themselves,

and listen to the song of the red-eyed vireo

chanting his mnemonic mantra?

“See me” “Up here.” “Here I am” 

Can a poem, even a silly one that doesn’t

say anything, just asks questions, inspire?

After it's written perhaps someone will

read this poem, then stand barefoot on

spongy grass,

rotting leaves,

hard, hewn wood,

raise their golden face, hands open

to the sun,

the black, rolling clouds,

the slice of moon,

and shout, maybe for the first time,

 “See me!  Down here!  Here I am!”

 

Cindy Steffen

May 2011