Poetry
Often I harken back
to a very wise poet,
how “life is but a stage”
of tender moments
splashed and splattered
by fierce jabs of passionate
heated rage
such opera the workings of
fallible human hearts~ such a
masterful organ still an infant
unwinding with tyrannic-like
stops and starts
Where would poetry be
without feeling words
and colorful flourishes?
Where? Without reckless splashes
on canvas wall and trampled over
floor – saturated flamboyant
brushes ever mixing and dabbing
seeking and grabbing smoothing and
rubbing out fillings satisfying
while definitions left
spatially wanting
for the poet draws as he writes
from wells deeper tributaries distant
less regulated winding streams of uncoagulated self
seeing one's soul somewhere between ignorance
and all knowing ever greater for its never finding
ever seeking ever flowing
Indeed “life is but a stage,”
every breath a potential scripted
unscripted page every exhale a new dissolve
for the air to take hold of and fly with
Never cheat ambient emotion
of heights and potential lows
Never set passion wastefully adrift
let the spirit give full body a heartfelt
push into uncharted always somewhat
perilous yet marvelous revealing lift–
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