Too many voices. Too few of them my own. The drumbeat noise of Twitter and its ever-inciting FOMA. The incessant cymbols of Google-Classroom work, with its screens of tiled avatars and silent answers. The base-boom of volunteering demands.
Somehow the path of poetry ended under windblown sand. I stumbled into the sandstorm, fingers clenching the flying grains. The words withered. The lines drooped low. The April ambition of a fourth 90-in-30, even a 30/30, fell like a tempest-tossed house-of-cards.
The winds cease. The clamoring voices die down to a persistent whisper. I still face the screen fatigued and leave it exhausted. The volunteer demands accumulate still. But the soft whisper of poetry emerges from the cacaphony.
Here I am, again.
conflicting birdsongs
suddenly past bloom
the dogwood
UPDATED: for Colleen Chesebro’s #TANKA TUESDAY #POETRY CHALLENGE NO. 224, #POETโSCHOICE
Frank J. Tassone 
Leave a comment