Guest Poet John Plessinger
Summer Storm
"Blocked.
(Make a song out of that: concretely)"
It is the opening of August, steaming.
Terrible steel, with a frightful gleaming,
The slashes made are not symmetrical
The knives, from me are hidden. It is theatrical.
Heaven is at its brightest before the storm.
Sighs of the gods, is the languid lightning, warm
The skies, in this Purgatory, bright as colored pastels.
The crack of thunder, a gentle grimmace of hell.
On this wet summer night, I lie on my bed.
Anesthesia Rain, drain consciousness from my head.
Empty is my head from my private lightning.
Is the vision of death something so frightening?
August, 2001
John Plessinger's questions:
This poem is a reflection of my recent suicide attempt and the
electro-convulsive therapy I am receiving. I strongly suspect that this is evident to only myself. Am I delusional or are my suspisions correct?
How strong are the rhymes and as far as rhythm does it flow?
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