C.W. Bryan Poet Free verse

Ars Poetica

Poetry is a busy crosswalk downtown,
when everyone moves together with elbows 
held a little wider than normal.
Poetry is a middle-aged man, creased 
and folded, sprawled out on the neglected 
weeds in Woodruff park, eyes wide shut.
Poetry is the free fruit for children
podium in between the produce
and clearance aisles, oranges
and apples withered to marbles.
Poetry is a crying baby
at the 3 o’clock movie theater.
Poetry is a young boy in the park,
battered by curiosity, in a fight to the death
with furry flowers, their guts filling the air
with each oaken swing.
Poetry is giving a nod to the mailman.
Poetry is the unintentional eavesdropping
of the worst idea for a screenplay
ever fielded.
Poetry is the gait of a man recently
in love, thinking of hands
suddenly adored.
Poetry is the enigmatic ether that fills
the summer air so thick you have
so do the breaststroke just to 
get back home.
And how can you ever think to write it
if you are stuck inside behind
grating blue screens or
painfully white paper?

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