For Keith Johnson

‘Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.’ Carl Sandburg

I presume, since Carl Sandburg was a poet

of the railroad and the five-and-dime,

of prairie skies and the remarkableness

of the people, they are American

biscuits – that cross between scone and bannock –

to mop up the gravy from your beans

on the Chisholm Trail to Dodge City.

According to Homer, among others,

Hyakinthos, a Spartan prince of great

beauty, much fancied by Apollo,

had his skull split. Zephyrus had thrown

a vindictive discus. From the young man’s

purple blood bloomed the flower, his initial

traceable amongst the ornate petals.

Love and lard, flour and ferocity,

blossoms and buttermilk, salt and stories –

poetry is an amalgam, a mixture

of use and wonderment.

Note: Keith Johnson