ALAS POOR POETRY
So, just what is poetry?
An endless attempt to rhyme with orange?
A forever searching of the soul for meaning?
An idyll fantasy a-dance with alliteration’s riffs?
An individual search for “our” Holy Grail
Perhaps, a distant song
Forever playing in our heads,
Sung softly ‘neath the murmur of the day.
Pitons driven into the stony crust of life.
A mud puddle inviting us to make mud pies
Rekindle the joy of soft pliable words
Shaping a moment to ponder
Poetry’s resonant question
“who makes the best mud pies”
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