No Poemba Today by Michael W. Eliseuson

No poemba today,
Not even a hint of poembesia,
Just a tattered flake or two,
Of poemia sifting down,
On my purloined head,
Leaves no poesia,
On my sweated brow!

When I was young,
I poemed often,
Lifted great ores of it,
In my rock bottom boat,
And laughed all waves away,
Cheered the thunder and the wind,
Threw anchors out,
And stayed lifetimes,
Swimming around the boat,
In search of sharks,
To eat my boiling mind!

When I became older,
Poeming grew like manhole covers,
Rolled South then North,
Rolled restlessly,
Noisey as hell,
Bad poems all!

Now the old man rests,
Breathes poetry,
Exhales words of writ,
Finds honest labor,
In the craft,
Finds wisdom in the life,
Which yet blooms,
To teach me!

Like fireflies in bright spangles of wood,
I trace their passage,
In the darkeries of both forest and time,
And still I wonder,
Which be mine?