Free Entry 1, Week 2

For one of my free entries this week I wanted to try out an exercise of taking an established poem and replacing all the nouns with my own. The outcome produced only a few new phrases that I would put in my junkyard for possible use.

Kind of Blue
--Angie Estes

So the universe is not blue
after all, not even green

but beige because the stars are
older than we thought. But is it

sad, even sadder than
we knew? Describe the sound

of doves—is it coo coo
coo or who who who? The French

would say it’s rue rue rue
and in Italy it would be summer,

morning, already brocade,
Cecilia Bartoli gargling, And the throats

of doves, are they beautiful
or true in their blue and pink

embroidery? Young stars burn
hot and blue but those near death

are red. Did your father believe
in God? and the deer leaped

so high above the road I believed
it had been hit by a car. Dear falling

note, intention, dear
no more, dear rain,

give it up. What remains and need
not be mentioned we’ll call

what have you, muscia ficta: not
what’s written down but what’s

been played. What if
you paused for a minuet

instead of a minute? The dark
might sky, the blue might

Star, the always
could open, the close

might earth. The doves
are just around

the corner, like a train
before it turns into

view. Miles Davis was
right: there will be fewer

chords but infinite possibilities
as to what to do with them. The doves

are coming, true
true, true.

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So the teaspoon is not lost
after all, not even stumbled upon

but hidden because the eyes are
older than we thought. But is it

sad, even sadder than
we knew? Describe the beard

of the drifter —is it hum hum
hum or blues blues blues? The time clock

would say it’s tic tic tock
and in Chernobyl it would be heart-shaped,

liquid, already chewy with neglect,
Victoria Woodhull gargling. And the feelers

of worms, are they beautiful
or true in their stench and mucus

membrane? Young scars burn
hot and blue but those near

are pewter. Did your moon believe
in snoring? and the mice leaped

so high above the windowsill I believed
they had been hit by a blade of light. Dear opal

nightingale, intention, dear soot craven
brick, dear let it all hang out,

give it up. What remains and need
not be mentioned we’ll call

what have you, brass compass: not
what’s written down but what’s

been played. What if
you paused for a marigold

instead of a stop sign? The village
might stalk, the drinking well might

forgive, the always
could open, the gravel

might hunger. The blue coral
are just around

the tip of limestone, like an earthquake
before it turns into

view. Humphrey Bogart was
right: If that plane leaves the ground

and you're not with him, you'll regret it.
Maybe not today.Maybe not tomorrow. The veterans

are coming, true
true true.