I read words written by greater minds than this,
with true grammar and alliteration,
symbolisms I do not possess.
I write true to me, not others.
I do not expound on how a cherry tree branch bends,
sways in a golden afternoon breeze,
that smells of fresh flowers in a farmer’s field.
I write about being blue, lonely-
being in love.
I use plain words and no pretense.
I shall not compare you to a summer’s day.
I do not title things with first lines,
or the word “Elergy,” or “Ode.”
To me, the word ode is only for use in crossword puzzles,
the kind I do when I’m bored at work.
It means a lyrical poem, in case you never knew.
Those years of literature classes meant very little,
this book of the English language sits unused on my shelf.
But I don’t throw it out, because you never know-
you never know when I might need another word for cherry tree branch,
or when I may feel that a breeze is scented by some kind of flower.
Brigid Hannon is a writer from Buffalo, NY. Her poetry has been
featured at Ghost City Press Review, Right Hand Pointing, Constellate
Magazine, Night Music Journal, and Madwomen in the Attic. Her short
fiction has been featured at Soft Cartel and Edify Fiction. She can
be found online at hamneggs716.wordpress.com and on Twitter