A Stick Poem by Kevin Patrick II

It found me, nestled in the grass
by the clearing next to the church
This small foundling of kindling
A sturdy limb from a red maple
pruned by natural selection
Then beached on verdant progeny
And hidden through the wily shade
unspoiled by a hungry sun



What a remarkable thing, a stick
This weathered beating arm of flora
Cauterized by cladoptosis
Sheared off its cradle to its grave
But a stick has more currency
then miscellaneous detritus
It can open up a new world
As conduits to imagination


It can be a sword from Arthurs court
Excalibur reborn from fate
Lay waste to armies of Oberon
And ready to raise Camelot again
Or Maybe its Blackbeard's cutlass
Ready to make mincemeat of blaggards
and kowtow redcoats to terror
As you sail the seven seas

Or it could be a Tommy gun
Taking down all the dirty Huns
In the great battle of the Somme
Where boys never grew into men
maybe you can rob a bank
Be a gangster like Dillinger
Bulldoze the heat, for free loot
And make the perfect getaway


Or it could be a Wizards staff
A magical aid for adventures
Through dark and misty labyrinths
In dungeons and iron mountains
You could use it to cast great spells
Summon spirits and elements
Enchant primordial monsters
And fight dragons and daemons


It can be an electric guitar
A Gibson or a fender strat
And you can play like a rock god
Strumming those chords on heavens door
Fingers moving frantic passion
Down stings that only you can see
Caressing the savants axe
Making music of your souls cadence


Such is the gift of an old stick
It lights phantoms of invention
Creates in vitro universes
Folding its divine asymmetry
From unencumbered repose
Out of childhood geology
It forms a bedrock of what we loose
When we become to old to dream