Christmas conversation

Fearing language, tongues
Curbed, feelings thwarted,
Shells built, lacquered, 
Again, again, again…
Forever adding layers
Between heart, meaning,
Cell-fired knowledge; those
Truthful connections brought
By well-placed, -chosen 
Words--to favor
Tinsel-shiny, symmetrical 
Language trees grown in
Deception forests.

"I love your sweater"--
Its workmanship,
Its fuzziness, how its 
Fabric truthfulness 
Lets me see you; how
Its presence demands I
Explain why it's such an
Effrontery to my eyes.

"Ah, rum balls again! I
Look forward to these,
Every year!"  Yes:
Looking forward similarly
To property taxes, to
Week-long rainstorms,
To dogs humping my leg.
Intellectually accepting 
Privileges offered me
By these taxes. Loving
Dense greenery which thirsts
For spring rainstorms. My
Sardonic smile acknowledging
This dog's instinctual need.

"Didn't your mother ever
Tell you 'If you can't say
Anything nice, don't say
Anything at all'?"

I would like to think
My mother had more 
Character than that."
(I know my father had.)

Poetry walks narrow
Precipices. One misstep
Spells doom. Meaninglessness
Assails poems, surrounding
Them, attempting to breach
Their constructs. Poets
Cannot choose their weaponry.
What comes to hand,
Comes to hand.

One thought on “Christmas conversation

  1. I would like to think poetry stands on its own, means what it means to whom it means. In the spirit of wanting to keep what few strained relationships I have, I must add this: the language of the poem is cast in Christmas terms due to the season. A thought about poets *needing* to use every weapon in their arsenal (regardless of whose feelings it may offend) juxtaposed with the season to become this poem. Also…I would like to point out that what seem to be pejorative thoughts about the quotes are shown to be far different in reality. There. The remainder is up to you.

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