Without Words

— Remembering Sandy Hook, December 14, 2012

On normal days,
words dance in my mind
like dervishes. They whirl
and twirl, inviting me
to catch and shape them
into a poem.

But shots ring out and bodies
fall. Children hide under tables,
in closets and bathrooms.
Six- and seven-year-olds
die in their classrooms. 

My words hide,
too. My words die,
too. I try to write
poems with no words.

 
Jan Bosman.jpg

Poetry chose me to play on its team a long time ago, and I've worked to improve my skill ever since. I don't write a lot of poems with soft edges because the news tries my soul. Part of the year, I convene with the Paper Birch Poets in northern Wisconsin.