'No Matter Of Wen' Poem by Michael Timothy Rose

I

“No matter of Wen”

Beating in beat,
on and on: drum-
patterned feet.

A metronome clocks
my days
in various parts
of rhythm. Rhythm consorts
with various parts
of speech, and I
find myself
alive in words. Words
like melodies,
like harmonies, they
can’t help but conspire
together. Inspire. So,
they architect
meaning
human
poetry.
The Fifth or my own. No matter.
It sounds against adversity, the current of
normality, diversity
grounded
on concrete
below the streetlight glow.

II

Below the streetlight glow:
a trio of mice gather
under a singular sky
among infinite stars,
followed, then, by me.
Our art on the corner
is drawn in Japanese this time: Sepucha.
Sharpened, tipped canes and pens against the lights and horizon. “Honor! ” is yelled. The Code!
Free Verse begins:
three dead blind mice, under another sky, among a struggling fire fly collection caught in a spider’s web,
and, followed, then, by me,
still standing,
still thinking exactly
how to write under the streetlight glow.

The clock along the way, ticks several numbers away, under the minute hand,
while I wonder exactly
how to write
under the streetlight glow.

III

Three Billy Goat Gruff pass to graze on my corner.
Our art on the corner
is drawn in various parts this time.
We, all, twinkle in turn a little,
cultured,
in cohesive, passionate, jazz tap. I write
in some concert of words:
“my life’s only palpitation.” On paper, only,
I write:
“Wen.” However, I see:
“No Matter.”
No, a troll would understand,
I miss the mice, so, I read about the
funny, blind, dancing samurai, thinking,
it is no matter of Wen.
And I listen
in the beat!
It beats
in beat.
And I echo,
I echo:

Beating in beat,
on and on: drum-
patterned feet.

“No matter of Wen.”