What is Poetry? – part 3
Poetry doesn’t necessarily rhyme,
it just climbs out of the mind,
out of a recess in time,
obsessed with success
and blind to the cold shoulder it usually finds.
It’s a mess, it’s sublime,
it’s a knife as a prize,
it is life in the eyes,
it is death, of a kind,
it’s leaving something behind,
it’s caressing the past
and the future that lies,
dormant though brooding
Who says poetry is dead?
What is Poetry? – Part 2
Poetry is the forsaken cry, the loneliest voices with the loudest minds,
captured in ink, blighted by drink, or bolstered,
emboldened with the bravado to think big,
to sing on a page,
to rage against the silence of days
spent drifting through the passive malaise,
the love of something and not for how it pays.
Poetry is the air up there, despair in the mind of a scribe
at not being able to fly, so it is
the flight of birds described by those who live in unknowns
to those who dream of being free.
Poetry is anything between a sucker punch or a long lunch,
a coupe de grace or a warm embrace.
It’s the lines of life in a face,
the wrinkled space between
never and eternity.
I never wanted you to take one of those Flowers sitting on one of those boxes
or to pack up your love,
And get ready to send them off to face
I never wanted you to say goodbye,
To think that this was it
Even though most of your reality
With him was toxic.
I never wanted to see you
Sitting in any pew,
the morning of a
Not for him especially,
not for anyone.
Continue reading Breaking While Pushing Forward
they weren’t neighbors.
they couldn’t be.
they wouldn’t let them be
because they were just
Continue reading They Ain’t Our Neighbors