As water when in droplets formed
falls winded down from leaves
when rain returns cold fire upon
two breathless, dusty forms
as liquid courage quickens lungs,
roots feet upon hot hearth
invokes our subterranean fire
by song, by spit, by drink

as chill Noreaster wets her brother
Southern Wind’s dull heat
begetting the brimstone pillers, hail,
the whirlpool’s aery twin
as boiling baths break grime with steam
as stew evapors three
as books can ground an untamed blaze,
break blizzard’s bite, stop sea
as salt, as watered wind, limelight,
as sun breaks burns to rays
as wave, as particle, as bright
as solar winds in space
as lack of water, air, no heat
as absence of a sphere
of water falling through thin
air to ice the burning bear
she blows. Awakes forgotten storms
from willowed memory.
She rains them down upon hot flesh,
our break from trails or sea.

A note on 50 @ 25:

Once upon a time, I read that the perfect age for writing quality poetry is twenty-three.  Apparently most of T.S. Elliot’s stuff came out then, the rest of his work being supposedly non-poetic. This resulted in 46 poems written at 23.

These poems came out exponentially faster and faster before my 24^th birthday on April 30^th – and I had to write in genres spanning from epic ballads to limericks to get 46 in on time. I guess that means, for better or worse, that’s the best poetry I’ll ever write. Sad day.

Who was I kidding?

Milton was blind and old—oooooold—when he publishedParadise Regained. Emily Dickenson was dead when her stuff came out. My favorite stuff from T.S. Elliot came out after his conversion. So yeah, old age is good for poetry too. Look at Burns and Berry.

(Side note: the name “Berry Burns” sounds like a shady car salesman).

Will I keep up this twice-my-age regimen every few years? Who knows, but this year, here’s to 50 poems at 25 to be written exponentially faster until I turn 26 on April Thirtyish. I do it this the second time around as a way to say: “Here’s to living life well before it’s too late.”