Bio Note: I am the author of Atlas Apothecary (Finishing Line Press) and other poetry chapbooks. I am the editor/publisher of the annual poetry journal Exit 13 Magazine, "The Crossroads of Poetry Since 1988."
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been one month since my last functioning poem. I’ve written some allusions in random notebooks and used alliteration in Facebook replies, but I have barely crafted a verse or completed a sentence in weeks. I read other poets and writers in hopes they’d trigger inspiration before they flew to other fields. But the cardinals, sparrows and jays were only concerned about the seed I put out yesterday. I felt the morning sun on the back of my head after I had my hair cut short. My first thought was winter took a wrong turn and dropped me off in spring. That wasn’t what the groundhogs forecast. One did, one didn’t, and one died before deciding. My winter haircut usually means six more weeks of frost and snow for my bare neck and balding head. People care more these days about mask mandates, border blockades, and Oscar snubs than they do about my omens and logic. And don’t get me started about the ancient celebration of Lupercalia and how Hallmark turned it into a romantic ATM. Next time, I’ll use a notebook with larger pages so thoughts won’t break and drift away. I’ll have a pen handy when the sun reflects into my room, before the earth’s angle shifts and unplugs the light. For this, and all the poems of my past life, I am sorry.
©2022 Tom Plante
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