Night Poem

This poem can’t sleep.
It slips in and out of bad rhyme.
The lines bump, run on
come up short.
It hears explosions between syllables.
Smells death in the distance.
The poem blinks, rolls over
on its back.  Its lover
tucks her head on its shoulder
and the poem thinks, oh yes
now I can count my breathing
finish it in the morning.
But the poem can’t listen.
It keeps seeing faces
blank faces, white nothing
and silent screams keep the poem
running after itself.
Something, someone is dying.
The poem dodges looking for a place to hide
a fox hole, a haiku, a villanelle.
It just can’t sleep with all the goings on
all the young faces, the bodies blowing up
in darkness and repetition, all the bruised
words, the onomatopoeia, alliteration
gods, tyrants, poetry flags and enormous bombs
shaped like poems for the flash
and forget, of what is, or not
that keeps it awake this time.
Maybe a glitch, the poem thinks.
Maybe start over, free itself
find another truth in what ever
Godforsaken hell flashes
in the poem this time.

Mendocino Sky

For Bobby Markels

You are the matriarch, the muse..
Gymnast for moon people.
Ring master for effervescence.
Leap Frog for night turtles and rooster girls.
We cheer.  Rabbits wag their ears.
Mice are hula hoops in disguise.
We wait for the aha..
The song called Wind.

Author’s bio:

David Plumb’s new book is, Poetry on Strings with marionette maker, Pablo Cano.  Writing has appeared in The Washington Post, The Miami Herald, New College Review, Homeless Not Helpless Anthology, St. Martin’s Anthology, Mondo James Dean, 100 Poets Against the War, Salt Press, UK and his weekly blog,Notes from a Wavering Planet Will Rogers said, “Live in such a way that you would not be ashamed to sell your parrot to the town gossip.” David Plumb says, “It depends on the parrot.”