When the last word’s dropped

flop, plopped, stopped,

silent sounds rolling

around, round, down

to the beat of the grinding

dirt, soot, sand underneath

feet, soles, toes, hollow

followed by the inevitable

glitch, switch, itching vowel

that sweet, sour stolid flower

found loud and wrung from the tongue

of that last dead-dropped-song

sung to the tune of the chanting muse

panted by the laboring fuse, fit, fury

mind in a hurry to split, sit, write

for all her might, worth and birthing

the girth of a mellow, mad rhyme

climbing to the top of a hill

filling, spilling willing her word

to a mystical mountain whose

swooping, slopes, pitching peaks

pry from her mouth as she speaks

this slow quick, slip gripping time,

in the rhythm of a flip, flopping, hopping

bird soaring, flying, trying to see all

from its high, sky, fleeting vantage point.

© Hannah Gosselin and Metaphors and Smiles, 2012.

Written for day four of NaPoWriMo

2 thoughts on “~THIS POET’S CHANT~

I'm so grateful for your visit and I really enjoy reading your thoughts. :)'s

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