Fran Skiles

Fran Skiles

there are no poets
   only obscure old men
      pushing around letters

rearranging words
   carried over the years
      like pebbles in a pocket

who realize one day
   they have worn a hole
      in the wool and run off

`til found by a child
   with a nonsensical soul
      and set to a childish tune

only then will a poem
   be worth its own weight
      when poets have all died

“I was to be redeemed
       by the gift of arranging words
    But must be prepared
       for an earth without grammar.
    For the thistle, the nettle,
       the burdock, the belladonna,
    And a small wind above them
       a sleepy cloud, silence.” ~ Czeslaw Milosz


About Peter Notehelfer

I'm a retired people person who now finds the time to watch the little details of the world without worrying about being watched by anyone . . . I live on an Island north of Seattle with my wife named Ellen, a yellow dog named McGee, a yellow cat named Gatzby, and four fine chickens . . . I read fiction, bake bread, smoke salmon, and fish whenever the weather allows . . . Oh, and yes, I try to write a poem every day simply to avoid senility!
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8 Responses to Redemption

  1. your letter-pushing is masterful, ensuring your escape from obscurity


  2. Hey, don’t forget the obscure old women…


  3. I’m afraid I’m not very politically correct . . .


  4. Fiza says:

    Love this piece, Peter! It might just become a favourite of mine.


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