“Life, in Other Words”
by Liz Bennefeld
Sometimes writing makes the world seem real.
Not that it wasn’t, but I could pretend
that everything I see is only make-believe,
that people who are shot and killed, don’t die,
but reappear next season in a different show.
I haven’t cared to watch the news or weather,
neither drama, art, reality or crime,
for years, now, but that doesn’t seem to help.
When reading books, the breaks in action
can be chosen, both in time and place. Not
like what’s happening outside those doors,
or like what’s outside echoes in my mind
when poetry erupts like lava toward the sea.
Reading books still leaves me in control, no
matter that weeks, months or years may separate
the Prologue from the final, ending words.
But when the words start streaming forth
in that inexorable burning line that marches
over houses, meadows, shops and trees,
then one must always, ever hold on tight,
lest all should end before it stops again.
I wonder, if I were to stop—keep from writing poetry—
the lava would return into the crater’s mouth, and
harmony and love would swallow up the earth instead.
“Life, in Other Words”. Copyright © 2015-10-02,
by Liz Bennefeld. All rights reserved.
Note: Just a little something to keep my hand in.