The Pollinations Of Green Words Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Overly persistent:
The pollinations of green words.
My novels get done in a week,
Then sit around and wither until they fall
From the vine,
Without a little girl’s eyes to perceive them,
And not a dime earned.
Their mothers buy them better fruit.

A member of the organization
Of overgrown boys, lost and
Taking directions from Peter Pan:
Daycare rock-stars unwedded
And working together in a gingersnap union
Following the trail of bread crumbs
Running away from the mainland,
To pursue their first star until morning,
And then to sleep until afternoon
Mouths drooling on the white sands sinking
Into the crystal clear bay
Where lines of toys parade in aquatic fanfares.

An epic poem of fast food and tooth decay,
Sleeping on the dusty shelf,
The misspelled words who wake up
In the middle of the night and hang themselves-
The excelsior packing the box of unsold perishables,
That affects the lines to grow on the yellow page
And into the worried flesh-

Unnumbered tears shed for princesses
Going to school to better themselves,
Wed to the men of their concentricity,
Drudged up from instances of the imperfectly memorable
And given peacock’s feathers and good lighting,
Made the subject of the nickel novel.
Instead of gunfighters, we have flaxen muses
In various poses of undressed deity.

The night is lonely in the torpid awareness
Furrowing the mundane’s brow
With the needs to express the watermarks
Staining the beating heart,
Not fully knowing the successful artist’s
Deeper desires, the homeless man’s basic needs
For food and shelter,
And his freedom to look up amidst
The traffic and see nothing but
A canvas of beating stars
Without a hint of love for him.