Mud Poem
September 9, 2011 § 1 Comment
Muddy-shoed mud poem
walks across the page
going as poems go
from line to line
and down,
and the more it rains
the more the ground agrees
to take up with whoever
comes along
and replant itself
on floor, carpet,
sofa, bed, in teacup,
on toast, until we are all
muddied, even rain
before it lands, even cloud—
dark with who knows what.
But fear not mud, but make
with it what you can
in sculpture, on canvas—
finger painted on a face
you kiss,
and in a poem.
Bill Graeser 
what i get from this one is the intrusion of mundane reality and a certain ennui that might muck up all the place we try to keep tidy and away from the droll mindset we might take on at work or during some monotonous task. i like how you make it work into the poem on that self aware level, remarking on how even in your writing the cold touch of a sour reality plods through words and thoughts, asking for something to be done with it, to be made into art or something more enjoyable than another stain on the carpet. this is lovely work