The Plight of Your Stein Light

I wrote this for Gertrude Stein, a lover of words and as abstract as you can get. I referenced her past and how she became the writer that she was....I dare you to try and figure it out! I tried to play with all these words. I tried to see all the litt

Your shading, so gray, so

Varied and sullied in the blinding spray of sun.

Your spoken words were tokens

Of a horror known and

Shown through honed tones

Tediously tantalizing, unable to analyze

Abstract catalyst of altering attitudes and

Attempting art though a-b-c alchemy.

Align a line,

Lending light to lack thereof,

Trying to imply that life is insight and

Inspiration simply inside one's mind, Stein.

A play on plays, plagues my sprained cranium,

Rearranging the plain plane of my brain.

Did you try to tame the insane, Stein?

Or did you place blame on the boring bane of the famous?

Word, Gert, word to your woe and disillusioned soul.

On a roll, your role a conclusion of a failed revolution.

An intrusion, cut that, a Gertrusion, Gertrude.

An incision of precision, precious, precocious, ferocious

Into the atrocious one dimensional process

Of human though you sought to cure

The pure, dirty in theirr straightforward, cowardly collisions

Of people speak and written poetic peaks.

Stein, you changed mine.

You altered my creative altar.

You tainted my tongue paint and my

Pointy pens of poetic license,

Permanently permeating my passive past and pointing at

Massive potential of playful prose.

And for those who suppose you were too spaced out, without

A doubt, they missed the place, the there, where you graced

The bare page and declared

"There is no there, there."

My gratitude Gertrude, in my rhyme for Stein.