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1/22/2017 12:49:40 PM Marsha Smith Posts: 4	The Poet Speaks For Them If I were a seed in soil; that held within it coiled, furled, a blade of grass to clothe a hill or seasonal bloom of flaming hues to tickle the eye or caress the nares with redolent notes that fill the air, I wouldn't speak of it. If I were a tree with roots that is a compass to heaven, with toes that dig and cling reaching far below the dark caverns past ancient wells, with tops that spire and pine supreme waving the span like a flag atop the highest tower overlooking buildings snapping billowing, lauded, saluted, I'd stand silent, stoic. If I were the vast imperium swept bright in the dim of dusk with sparks of glittering shards spread like freckles across the angel kissed face of a carrot topped child and if my milky swirled galaxies churned boundless, in an Elysium vat savored by winged messengers like ice-cream churns gelid—ambrosial served in swirls on the 4th of July at terrestrial celebrations, I wouldn't say a word I’m heard and noticed— the poet observes with his imaginings, lifts his pen and writes of it. ©2017 Marsha S. Smith edited by ember2ash on 1/22/2017 edited by ember2ash on 1/22/2017
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1/30/2017 2:14:50 PM Graphite Drug Posts: 81	An excellent quality of work. There is real good poetry here, difficult for me to comment on. I was tripped up by white space though. line breaks and stanzas seem abruptly placed to me. For example, I wrote the first part: If I were a seed in soil; that held within it coiled, furled, a blade of grass to clothe a hill or seasonal bloom of flaming hues to tickle the eye or caress the nares with redolent notes that fill the air, I wouldn't speak of it.
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