Sunday, February 22, 2015
Sunday Night Poetry
BE HAPPY TURN YOUR PAIN INTO PASSION
All the times I've been born
and hit by the wakening hand,
I must have missed the lesson,
the luck of the anguished
who carry not garbage in dented cans,
but glittery cuttings to powder their lawns.
Give me that drum-trumpet.
I'll toot the bang of bad karma,
lift my corpus out of its swoon,
prove I'm not a prisoner of archipelagoes.
I, too, can get fired up for the ball,
big deal of a world to wallow in.