Just Say It

I want to write the serious poem,
the one with metaphors, geese
in flight, birds on a wire, love
and blood, sunrises, and the moon
like a communion wafer flat
against a black sky. I want to find
the words that rhyme and make
hearts flutter with anticipation. But
I can't. I read the poets, the serious
and studied bards that fill
the books and libraries, the ones
who will live on in dusty wonder
until the end of time, and I am
bored, bewildered and disappointed.
They speak in calculated riddles,
counting lines, the syllables,
the refrains. It's so hard to peel
back the form and the pastry
of words to get to the point.
There are only so many things
to write about between the start
and end of a life, and most of those
revolve around love. Always love.
The lack of it, the search for it,
the end, the beginning, the beauty
of what love is. But it's impossible
to just say it. It's no wonder
these books stay on the shelf, these
complicated puzzles, and that very
few readers embrace poetry
anymore. It's the equivalent
of a high mass in latin, echoing
in an airless church. The pews are
empty, the parishoners are at home
watching television, logging on.