3 Poems by Cleo Griffith

 

Dear Entity of Creation,

Just a quick note of appreciation.

I'll just let this fly in the wind,

don't know how to get it delivered,

perhaps one of your wondrous creations

will bring it to you -- the wind, a bird,

a spark in the universe . . . 

I really love what you've done with the place,

the variety, you've really tried to give something

for everyone, we try to take care of it, get a little

sidetracked along the way sometimes, too enthused

over our inventions, like plastic, but then you

know all this, right?  See, that is what we don't 

always know.  Are you tracking us, paying attention?

'cause a lot of us feel on our own and for some

that is worrisome -- with others the result is worrisome

when they take on too much power and there is 

no restraint from you.  Did you mean for us

to go on without you?

An occasional reminder would be helpful.

Anyway, thanks again, I really love it on the whole.

Have a few suggestions, if you're paying attention,

you've heard.

Sincerely,

Your humble tenant,

me

Penguins

Pertinent as penguins

you would scold

when I mis-spoke,

or flimsy as flamingos

when I would disagree,

turn away my childishness

with humor, but, still . . . 

My child-self loved the words,

sought command, mastery,

sought commendation.

Your facetious reply-habit forced my silence

but not my continuance.

So I hoarded my vocabulary,

held it close as skin,

unshared,

and even now do not reveal

the wondrous catacombs

of my secret thesaurus.

How warm it keeps me.

Those Quick-Thought Days

There is a tiny creature

that lives within my consciousness,

as old as I, or nearly.

Her voice is tiny

but persistent

and she is nourished by

invention and creativity.

She has snoozed away a lot of time

over these many volatile years,

sometimes by my command,

sometimes of her own volition.

On those quick-thought days

when we awaken together,

production is ample, we smile.

Some days go by, day after day after . . .

we rest, until one of us makes a demand,

then we may work together without

spark, yet find a flame somewhere and

burst out with heat and color!

Funny how that can happen

as we trudge along like sullen kids,

just going through motions,

dragging empathy behind us.

Cleo Griffith has been on the Editorial Board of Song of the San Joaquin for eighteen years.  Widely-published, her poems have recently appeared in Blue Collar Review, Lothlorien Blog, and Wild Roof Journal.  She lives in Salida, California with her guard-cat, Amber.