Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter

Saturday, September 17, 2005


Katydid place a call in the middle
of the night from the rooftops
and the trees.
From the trees and rooftops,
be-boppin' scat to the background
of a distant drum that's always
on the way over the horizon
but never arrives.
Katydid place a call to rival
the sound of a thousand mutated
crickets as the moon glides low
enough to hide under the tallest limbs.
And somewhere fingers are pointing,
somehere truth can trickle down
like receding storm lines in a million
different stories with a million
different endings, the ones that say
death is a way of life, the ones telling
you to interpret the concept as change.


Stranger Ken said...

This is a clever poem, Beth. We don't have large green bush crickets here and your first use of "Katydid" seemed like a typo (Sorry!)until I came to the second and the penny dropped. The ending works well, too, changes the tone and made this reader at least think a little harder.

Bailey said...

Thank you Ken, for your kind words.. they are much appreciated after not having written anything at all in over a month.