Fish Out of Water; or, The Poetry of Evolution

Like the Peppered Moth that

Due to the pollution of the time

Turned darker and darker till

It was black and thus survived,

Here and now we witness life

Adapting to a blackening world.

Ages hence, men might stand around

A fossilized, gnarly hand that holds

A brittle pen and wonder

What torments could’ve driven

Their unfortunate ancestors to the

Edge of madness where they beheld

A grain of sand, a blade of grass,

An empty cup, the sun as it rose,

As it set, or the moon in all its phases

And saw what no instrument may detect.

Something inside them will sigh,

Almost nostalgic, as they file out of

A sterile showroom into a sterile world

Where stars will all have been named

But, where those same stars will have gone

Cold like dead volcanoes, like fiery

Passionate words that once lit up

The night sky for a moment like a

Meteor that flashes and is gone.

Yes, now we sit in the dark room of loneliness

Yes, now we bleed over shards of broken promises

Yes, now we’re Judases and doubting Thomases

But, we are the first fish that crawled, and

Then did the unthinkable when it walked.

To live is to die, so we might as well

Grow wings and learn how to fly.

 

Reviews

[Betty Hermelee]

Life often deals us a rotten hand, and now the world has made us change into old, dried-up humans with “ gnarly hands”unable to write our passionate poetry. What happened to the blackness we all endure, when once it was lit. If we have to up with this loss, we might as well do our best to endure it.