Summer, War and Winter

Why must all poets write
About the 'cicadas' and
Their way of winding up and down?
They bristle in the air
Like electric tears whose volts
Whine and snap in the moist, salt air,
Transformed to crack
The dam of another August day.
Why this overuse of something always there?
Neither do they know what 'staccato' means –
Unless they've heard machine guns
Laugh 'til even the wounded cry no more.
Poetry and poets are too often soft,
Like mushy poems in Hallmark cards –
Not willing to countenance
The hard and jagged breakwaters by the sea,
Nor the ice cold mist Slapping against their faces.

- by Mark S. Foley

Click here to view feedback on this poem.

Click here to see more of Mark's Poetry

Synergy Home