An Imperfect History
Poetry is an imperfect history,
a dance of fact and wonder,
hope and demons doing the minuet
with just a hint of music,
art and story,
make-believe with real monsters,
time travel colored by the moment,
an impossible puzzle,
as hard to decipher
About this poem
I love my readers. I mean that. I absolutely love you guys, and how often you read, comment, email me, message me, and share my poems. And more than that, I love the interpretations, and how people find meanings I never thought of.
But verse is an imperfect history for sure. Never assume it is where I am in the moment. Now and again it is, but it’s just as likely to be a memory that won’t let go, or an imagining of what it. Sometimes my saddest poems are written on good days. Sometimes my comical stuff shows up when I am in a black place.
Half truth-telling. Half playtime. Half rant and half song. That’s what it is.
But lousy history.