Finding Voice - Poem by Joellen Strandberg
Tonight I am Plath smashing infamous bell jars.
Come day, I am Whitman, my noisy fingers stroke tall leaves of grass.
Sometimes a Ginsberg howling of my generation,
or a guttered Poe, the raven pecking seams of my cloak.
Amongst giants, I come on Sandburg's little cat feet,
view to listen, writing poems on the lam.
But I am also morning's foul-tempered waitress,
the high-flying pilot who never sees sky,
the cunnng car salesman pitching MPG shine.
I am the remembered soldier,
the lover, the ex-lover, the mother
cradling all of memory in my hands.
I am the worn iron pots in my mother's kitchen.
I am the alarm clock never keeping good time.
I am the old Chevy lost, on the side of the road.
I am everything of all I have met.
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Joellen Strandberg's Other Poems
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You