In search of story



I searched for poems of spring.
Ponce de Leon seeks fountain of youth.
Alchemy? Holy grail?
Title for Brooklyn Bridge?

Pogo says the first sign of spring is winter.
But must winter enter in?
Mortality? Reality?
So heavy the tread of winter,
so light the touch of spring, that
the one inflicts on the other?

I want a verdant, blue poem.
Sunny, light as transparent green bug
en pointe on kitchen window,
barely there,
but declaring her being to me.

delicate as the glimmering bug,
but as worthy,
spring for its own sake,

No trespassing, poets,
with somber sound,
tempering delight with caution.
Leave such pedagogy to pedants.
I want no morals,
no lessons,
only the heady frilly breath of
this newborn air.

3 thoughts on “Protest

  1. Wow, Maureen! Despite the heavy footprint of winter (love that!), you give such humor and hope to your bedraggled readers while you demand the coming of spring. I’m with you there! The header with it’s fresh drops of water is perfect, too. I’m very glad you’re sharing your wonderful poetry.

  2. Thank you! I am wondering where the drops of water were, though; I have tried on so many headers today that I don’t know now what was up when. Which is more frustrating, the computer or an Indiana spring? I still don’t have it the way I want it — ah, the plaintive cry of the writer/artist!

  3. No worries, Maureen. The bud is beautiful, too. And do we ever have it the way we want it? I don’t think so!

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