When Caedmonic catalysts but short walks bequeath
and splendor is found in just the sound of some leaves,
and inurement to rain comes to contentment and calm,
scour the pen of its crust.
For wind, as an ode’s choice line, gives goosebumps out like soup
and war feels faintly less like Hell when birdsong strikes the troop,
and sinking suns backdropping lakes, even from the tail,
rip from the frigid, unappeased, a fated, sated feel.
Some spare paintings focused fair, to their causes of pauses akin,
some grey Greeks equated nature out with, made simple, nature within,
because art is fake and foretold about but people and their ways.
A schmaltzy sonnet on paper goes, a scratch on stone remains.
Even the jolly swagman, from the sturdy Baobab tree,
has found, when he’s unsheltered, shielding biomimicry.
It doesn’t take much sweat to grasp, to seize this pikestaff truth,
but, still, because we’re blindly vain, they spit out portraiture unamused.
Carson Pytell is a poet living in a small town outside Albany, NY. His work has appeared in numerous venues online and is currently available or forthcoming in print from such publications as Vita Brevis Press, The Virginia Normal, NoD Magazine, Blue Moon Lit & Art Review, Spank the Carp, Crack the Spine, Futures Trading, Down in the Dirt Magazine, Gideon Poetry Review, and Children, Churches & Daddies, among others. His debut collection, First-Year (Alien Buddha Press, 2020), is available on Amazon, and his second, Trails (Guerrilla Genesis Press, 2020), is in the works. When he isn't writing, reading, sleeping or picking the blues, Carson enjoys silent and foreign film, documentaries on fellow writers, the music of Townes Van Zandt, the art of Odilon Redon and the politics of absolutely no one.