The rejections fly in, oh boy.
So here’s a short poem this sunny Thursday. It, also, was rejected. In keeping with the theme for this week.
During the Flood
The year seems wrung out already.
A damp moldy twisted rag
left beneath a sink.
I understand that story in Genesis
so much better now.
That urge to drown everything within reach
and hope what survives
learns all the lessons necessary
to not repeat the same damn patterns
like a needle dropped into a groove
on some old timey vinyl.
Except the floods that consume us
never erase that tideline
where we scoff at the past’s mistakes
while repeating the past’s mistakes
without a hint of awareness or irony.
Perhaps we must be so broken and lost
that we must invent a new way forward.
Perhaps monkeys will lick the sun.
I have no answers as this year speeds
toward some conclusion we all saw coming
yet never saw coming at all.
ANN WUEHLER 