I wonder of poetry ...
Itís a frosty morning, I wrap my palms
around a cup of tea, glean itís warmth.
Last night, Ole Heater groaned, rolled over.
Refused to get up and clock in.
The wonder of poetry, I realize,
is everywhere. May I dare say it is omnipresent,
like You? As I cannot escape Your presence, I cannot
avoid the comparison of the quietness of this house to the
silence of glass before it breaks against a hard stone flooring.
Neither can I hear a deafening noise
without a glimmer in my mind to write just like
the roar of a hungry hurricane. I feed my aquarium fish,
their endless motion prompts the movement of a poem. Images
in mirrors give thought to challenge the reader with deeply layered verse.
And what of the poet? ...
Like You, the poet notices detail others might ignore.
An ever watchful Eye records into blue-lined notebooks,
then sets them aside until contractions become unbearable and the
mind labors to push out in miraculous birth, a wailing, but healthy
string of well chosen words.
Whether the poet disciplines his baby into metered rhyme
or sets it free to grow within the boundaries of lines such as these,
countless details are magnified into a story, perhaps an impassioned sonnet,
a bold ballad, dreamy sequence or merely the bare bones of an embraced mood.
Oh, the mood, the emotion ...
Like You, poetry allows me to leap into the transcendent
Light of Chocolate, dwell in a dark moment of Weepy Wretchedness,
forgive youthís slippery path. Poems provide unnumbered comforts at times
when my world runs away and threatens to never come home again to live with me.
But thatís not all ...
Like You, poetry surprises. Just when I think ordinary,
a word, a line causes me to gasp at itís royal brilliancy, there all along ...
found when least expected, a mass of wood violets peeking their noses from
beneath towering trunks, to be cherished, gathered into a bunch, held against my chest.
Will poetry die? I wonder.
I believe when this world, gone awry, revolves with such speed
as to cause man no time for leisurely notice of details, his only choice
to run in circles of chaos; and imagination has ceased to make comparison,
poetry will fold her hands and wait for burial in some distant unmarked grave.
Should I fret itís death?
Like You, poetry will come again and
split the sky on a white horse, wave triumphantly with
bejeweled sword, restore the circles into straight paths of Eternal Time.
Like You ... poetry will resurrect her splendor of words and reign forever.
And so ...
The wonder of poetry is You,
The Prolific Poet. With every life giving breath,
Your very Being is a Well Constructed Poem. No need of revision.
Then I, no,... little i,
am urged to lift my pen and let the burst of Spirit Fire
flow through the tip, spilling verse until my soul sings with satisfaction.
Now, now finally ...
I hear the kitchen sigh with warm relief. Ole Heater has
tumbled out of bed and pulled on his work boots. Ah, Sweet poetry.
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