Jason Ahlenius (2005) “Every Poem,” The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 25 : No. 2

every poem is a scar

where the painful pen strokes serve to cover

each cut to our dignity

and on shelves like bubbling, wretched jars of acid

they wait on the page to be rediscovered

reopening the laceration and seething in pure pain

given time it will heal and the words will fade

but the scar still remains

every poem is a light

and frankly mine is a 5-watt bulb

while I watch searchlights sweeping the streets

uncovering the decay and corruption within the city

and I seat myself in a play

and watch the stage lights shed new meaning on life and beauty

outside around the bonfire the poets dance

with their luridly glowing forms celebrating new life in the song

while a field of millions of lights is cast across the city

reflecting the sea of burning stars of the black sky

forming eternal constellations that guide the explorer by night

from the dimly lit corner of a forgotten room shines my nightlight

every poem is a comma

a pause in the life of the poet

wherein he stops and looks about

takes in a breath

as he observes the atrophy we are speeding towards

his car comes to a halt in his backyard

to notice a flower

or maybe a child who has never been there before

or perhaps he has been hidden away in his secret tree house

beneath the very nose of the poet

in midstride while retreating from a torrent

of raging rhinoceroses

he stops

pulls out a golden quill

and finds it a safety valve

to quench the fires of tension that redden behind his eyes

or maybe he even hesitates

for the snap of the boss’ finger

to notice that yes

there are still storm clouds in the evening sky