by Laura Doom
The 'stream of consciousness' we love to hate
is more a river running riot, banks
awash with turbid tribal trash, debate
that rages long and sour to fill the blanks.
And who can blame the victims of this flood
for wanting some relief, when cast adrift
upon a a self-indulgent sea of mud
admired when trapped and rapped as rapid's gift?
Beneath the surface torrents stutter, drained
of meaning. Hopelessness eternal springs
when confluence is stifled, then arraigned
for countercurrent acts where no-one sings.
At sea, we sync or swim against a tide
that turns maligned extremes to mainstream pride.
Posted on 08/05/2020
Copyright © 2020 Laura Doom
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 08/06/20 at 02:04 AM|
A poem for our times.
|Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 08/09/20 at 03:21 AM|
A sonnet for our times. Loved "turbid tribal trash," a self-indulgent sea of mud," and especially those last two lines. Oh, for a time when there will be room for love sonnets again.
|Posted by Rob Littler on 08/23/20 at 09:06 AM|
Yous gots a song dere, Missy... I'm sing'n again... so, thanks!