Pamela Shea

Spectral So Cal Poem

Take heart, my pen friends,

So Cal poets do not die.

They live on in books,

If they have good connections.

If not, they have paper piles

That hold their tears and their smiles,

Or perhaps journals bursting.

Yes, So Cal poets don’t die!

 

Some leave computers

That are waiting to explode,

Like far distant stars

Blazing brighter than wildfires.

Some leave poems written on rocks,

Or maybe hidden in socks

Waiting to be discovered.

Yes, So Cal poets don’t die!

 

Poems under car seats

Or in old glove compartments,

In closet shadows,

Perhaps in underwear drawers,

Lyrics meant for music scores.

Many poets are hoarders,

Or boarders long departed.

Yes, So Cal poets don’t die!

 

Fountains whisper words.

Some poets scream, others meme.

Creatures orate poems.

Words endlessly edited.

In mumblings heard on sickbeds.

Rhymes sent into the ether,

Perhaps to change to new forms.

Yes, So Cal poets don’t die!

 

The nature poets

Live on as waves keep rolling,

While sands are shifting

And trails continue twisting.

Some left poems on old subways,

Nowadays known as Metro,

Its rails strewn with paper scraps.

Yes, So Cal poets don’t die!

 

For whether reeking

Or smelling like sweet perfume,

Poems live on in rooms,

And may surprise newcomers.

Best to keep senses open

For So Cal poems are tokens,

Perhaps promises broken,

Better yet, promises kept,

And many wait for rebirth.

Would So Cal poets lie, dead or alive?

Hmmm…well, either way, in my opinion,

So Cal poets don’t die!