Irene Hardwicke Oliveri: “Some Kind of Wilderness”

Poetry is youth’s wilderness of broken rules
and a missing arrow piercing the middle
of the two intersecting hearts
drawn with the impermanence of a white school chalk
on flat asphalt driveway’s square
left to be washed away with the first kiss
and sorrow of a never ending day
that sinks hopeless with calamity of clouds in a raging hail.
Poetry sleep talks through middle-aged
emptiness of a dreamless fulfilled dream
crossing suburban superfluous
cul-de-sac backyard lines
where we’ve always been smiling and dying
until poems crossed cubical social space restrictions
turning ashes of things
into the pouring gold of meaningful rhymes;
Poetry is wilderness of lonesome gray times;
a wolf on a loose who Olivieri-Better-is-the-Readyscavenges glands musk
of ever exploding far galaxy stars;
Poetry is a sigh of all dying and deprived
and when history and wars fail
Poetry paints on a crushing plaster
a new coming world
leaving deep footprints of the past
on porous desert sand.
Poetry rides on the breakneck donkey colt
cuts through sun burnt desert
hypocrisy of the present
and writes the future
on smashed old written tablets,
lights in the daytime lanterns at the markets
worshiped as false temples;
poetry is a violent upcoming storm born in free and wild;
a jackal howling at a fool
with the full bucket stuck on the dark moon.

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