Rumplestiltskin

Poet Enemy #1

Here’s the thing, after a moderate amount of reflection, I think Rumplestiltskin is probably the poet’s fatal foe, nemesis, arch-villain, outlaw to be apprehended.

Wily guy, ruthlessly, relentlessly 
collecting straw, the most elemental 
ingredient of resonant poetry.

I know, I know, straw has a bad rap. 

Ughh, chaff.

Straw men, grasping at straws, 
drawing the short straw, THIS IS THE FINAL STRAW (we know from history and science that’s the one that does a number on every camel’s back.)

Here me out though:

I mean, mix straw with mud, 
build yourself a house of bricks, 
shelter from the elements, layer it
over fresh seeds to feed soil and song,               
make a whistle of a single stalk, 
your own musical herald to accompany your private thoughts, keep a piece behind your ear to jot down confessions, the color of the heavens, songs of resurrection, fill your arms with freshly cut phrases, poems at their simplest, just waiting to be turned, spun into pure gold, a hand to hold, a beam of light, a 
prophecy that colors the western lay,          birdsong at daybreak. 

I’m open to debate on this but 
remember every second we’re at it, 
Rump is roaming the world with 
his woven basket, greedily 
gathering up gold in its rawest form.

©️Charissa Sylvia

(For the start of World Poetry Month & to serve as sober warning for any unaware April fools.)