Open To Interpretation
I have a seashell poems collection of my own,
And after I've softly dissolved,
As soft things do,
Maybe these poem accretions will be arrayed
On the big museum work table
For the docents to catalog and identify,
And maybe muse,
Where and when and how
Did this one come by?
The Mage had transformed into a Hermit Crab,
And the Demon frustrated in his search,
The tide pool crowded, stirring,
With turban shell snails,
Empty turban shells,
Turban shells with occupant hermit crabs.
The Demon picked through them,
Examining one by one.
Poems are like seashells,
The soft spell casting mollusk long gone...
The Demon thought to ask one of the Turban Snails
Which and where the Mage's hiding turban shell
And set a Turban Snail on a high barnacled rock.
Canned movies, canned spaghetti,
Impressed poems you watch and hear...
The Mage hurried to complete a spell
While the Demon interrogated the Turban Snail.
Printed poems you read...
The Demon waited for the soft
Turban Snail Mollusk to slowly
Extend its antenna
From its Turban Shell...
Turban poems you dream...
The Mage's spell took,
And the Demon joined the Barnacles.
Summer crowds gone
Time for rollovers to the ocean
A motion carried notion.
Notes:...tried to make something with that line from yesterday...'poems are like seashells...'...reference all the hours playing WOW, World of Warcraft!...summer crowds gone...time for rollovers to the ocean...a motion carried notion...oh, as a docent, for too short awhile, I cataloged donated seashell collections at Bower's Museum...