Saturday, September 3, 2022

3 Poems by Cleo Griffith

Dear Entity of Creation,

Just a quick note of appreciation.
I'll just let this fly in the wind,
don't know how to get it delivered,
perhaps one of your wondrous creations
will bring it to you -- the wind, a bird,
a spark in the universe . . . 

I really love what you've done with the place,
the variety, you've really tried to give something
for everyone, we try to take care of it, get a little
sidetracked along the way sometimes, too enthused
over our inventions, like plastic, but then you
know all this, right?  See, that is what we don't 
always know.  Are you tracking us, paying attention?
'cause a lot of us feel on our own and for some
that is worrisome -- with others the result is worrisome
when they take on too much power and there is 
no restraint from you.  Did you mean for us
to go on without you?

An occasional reminder would be helpful.
Anyway, thanks again, I really love it on the whole.
Have a few suggestions, if you're paying attention,
you've heard.
Your humble tenant,


Pertinent as penguins
you would scold
when I mis-spoke,
or flimsy as flamingos
when I would disagree,
turn away my childishness
with humor, but, still . . . 

My child-self loved the words,
sought command, mastery,
sought commendation.
Your facetious reply-habit forced my silence
but not my continuance.

So I hoarded my vocabulary,
held it close as skin,
and even now do not reveal
the wondrous catacombs
of my secret thesaurus.
How warm it keeps me.

Those Quick-Thought Days

There is a tiny creature
that lives within my consciousness,
as old as I, or nearly.
Her voice is tiny
but persistent
and she is nourished by
invention and creativity.
She has snoozed away a lot of time
over these many volatile years,
sometimes by my command,
sometimes of her own volition.

On those quick-thought days
when we awaken together,
production is ample, we smile.
Some days go by, day after day after . . .
we rest, until one of us makes a demand,
then we may work together without
spark, yet find a flame somewhere and
burst out with heat and color!

Funny how that can happen
as we trudge along like sullen kids,
just going through motions,
dragging empathy behind us.

Cleo Griffith has been on the Editorial Board of Song of the San Joaquin for eighteen years.  Widely-published, her poems have recently appeared in Blue Collar Review, Lothlorien Blog, and Wild Roof Journal.  She lives in Salida, California with her guard-cat, Amber.

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