Thundering through National Poetry Month One Line at A Time

This makes me miss Derby City

I Write With Thunder

I didn't mean to burst

   with the thirst of a billion ideas, 

   but the thirst for answers

E X P L O D E D,

  and I learned history is reloaded with 

  a pen and keyboard.

My words, a sword, born in Syracuse,

are written across the Louisville skyline.

Now, I find myself primed

as a Director who paints the Connecticut sky,

who teaches others to also ask "why,"

as he empowers young people to compose.

And I suppose this has always been what was meant to be.

Call it serendipity, this kismet of composition, 

this supposition that letters bring meaning

to the intellect's preening 

of wonder and curiosity.

This, a luxury, that comes from being free

in a patriotic critique of what we're meant to be. 

What I hear, what I feel, what I smell, what I taste, and what I see

is the deliciousness of this chaotic mess,

where a Sunday post must confess 

I cannot rest until 

I find the meaning of it all.

Ah, a Kentucky y'all, I am so small,

but a green giant against the onyx night - 

and my linguistic might comes from a sudden flash.

These words arrive as I lash against all expectations, 

inhibitions, solicitations, and contemplations of the Great Whatever.

Over here and over there, whether near or, somehow, everywhere,

I must realize I have something to say.

Yes, today I am an aging display who bursts 

into the democratic symphony of e v e r y t h i n g.

As long as I can write,

I must sing history.
I must fight

in an explosion across the page.

And whether it's rage, just a phase, or I'm a sage, 

destiny will gauge what awaits to be seen.

Because right now, I'm just a bluegrass tradition in the nutmeg state,

you know what I mean?

A shout-out to the Louisville Writing Project and my Brown School family - I know that last night was a kick-off to all the magic that is Derby season. Soak it up!