All the old expressions whispered beneath my breath
suggest more than the multisyllabic references
fed to humanity hungry for the resonance of wisdom,
the slippery rhythm of a song to hang a hat on,
but too naïve, too misused, too untried to know
what we had to learn by hand. Most of the common
phrases gone with the passing-on of actual facts
no one yet living left to reiterate or forget.
So know-it-all I have become when whispers
venture as if to know with self-important volume,
as if my roar outweighs a worthier opinion.
Best keep my whispers to myself, the page
and call it poetry, best keep the conversations
with myself humorous, short and lasting.
drycrikjournal 