BOONE'S STRAWBERRY WINE

I don't know why it's so hard to stick with this damn blog! I promised one poem a day, and I can't even manage that. I feel like the world is somehow against poetry right now. That might explain why things have gone so crazy. A world without poetry is a world without love...and we can't have that.

Anyway, this post has reminded me of this poem, which talks about the demise of poetry. I'll let it speak for itself.

BOONE’S STRAWBERRY WINE

The poet is an organic recorder,
a two-penny transcriber, an empty goblet
waiting to be filled with intoxicating words.
He’s a cheap wine offering brief euphoria
for those willing to partake, but he’s also
the morning hangover and nausea, the
twisting sickness in the stomach that
occurs whenever somebody tastes the
acerbic bitterness of near truth.

That is why, more often than not,
the poet is left on the shelf,
forgotten and dusty, idly fingered by many,
but ingested by only by drunkards and college students.