Seventy-Year Locust

Yes, today's poem is yet another one about writing ... at least writing was what I had in mind when this poem came together.

It was written by a young whippersnapper, contemplating the approach of his seventieth birthday.

Since then he has matured a bit. He's a little more sedate, a little more laid-back, and certainly not the ruler of any tree, although he has received a bit of recognition for his poetry.

He has a first collection of poetry ... Chance of Rain ... on a few book store shelves, and even in some homes ... a second collection ... Hollyhocks ... and a third ... Wood Smoke ...  issued by Finishing Line Press. (Stay tuned; I'm always working on another one)

His song is a little more subdued than it was when today's poem was first written. But if you listen closely you might hear it, not so much a rasping, buzzing sound now ... something more like a soft humming, as though to oneself, or to those nearby.

And I thank you for stopping by for today's poem, originally published in Parnassus Literary Journal:

SEVENTY-YEAR LOCUST

I have lain dormant,
quietly mutating
into my present form,
and now I am
ready to cast off
that ancient husk
of my past,
emerge to my own song,
rasping, buzzing,
insinuating myself
into your consciousness.

I give you fair warning:
I am no June bug
on a string.
I am the real thing,
a rip-snorter
on the wing,
ruler of my tree.

Listen to me.
You can't help
but hear my song.
© 1996 
Today's word: sedate