My Little Sieve [poem]
I’ve got a little sieve
and it’s sitting on a shelf
in my mezzaninal mind
where it works its sieving ways
keeping fruitlessness at bay —
interference left behind
It’s an automatic sieve
so I never have to force
such a little sieve to work.
In fact the sieved-out parts
make it function with their hearts —
their sievedoutness well-deserved
My sieve sits on that shelf
as it’s very self-restrained
keeps its holey self in check.
If it scents the smallest trace
of a morbid hatchet-face
then it shakes without regret
The curious way it strains
(that little sieve I mean)
is as soon as it detects
you became another breed
from the one you claimed to be
then you earn its disrespect
My funny little sieve
has such very little holes
in its nickel-plated mesh
so that only those intent
on fomenting fool dissent
will then through those holes be threshed
I want no one in my life
with whom I can’t be real
and who isn’t real with me
and whose feelings do rely
on us being eye-to-eye
and on everything agreed
The bottom line is this:
If you disapprove these words
and you say “He’s got a nerve!”
then my sieve will do its thing
and you through its holes will fling
with a centrifugal splurge
But there is another slant
to this unkind-seeming verse
(only “unkind” for the blind):
you will never know my sieve
if with gentleness you live
and with loving hearts we rhyme
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 