Poetry Is

LIFE IS POETRY...POETRY IS… Poetry wears the words of smiles and tears, And speaks of stumbling through graveyards And up the aisles to ancient altars; Falling off of sidewalks and through the cracks of life Then rising up to stargaze from thin lines; Tripping over can’t and could have, Butting heads with treasured idols; Tracking sticky mud across the new waxed Marble floor of the soul – Scratching graffiti on the walls of the heart Or gently laying kisses on fresh jagged wounds – Carrying baggage filled with Stones of calendar pages; Chanting loudly of sunrise and sunset, Blending crystal snow with newborn leaves; Escaping clutches of midnight marauders Embracing the fairness of rose and mauve; Ignorance ignored screaming, Scrapping tender knees and elbows on pebbled concrete, Painting chaos – weaving breaths – unclogging drains – Knitting together quietness in blooms of Claire de lune. Poetry wears the words of frowns and grins And tells of fat ducklings waddling through spring; Wrapping scars in isolation, Discarding blindness In ancient hearts and newborn souls And all the in between; Cleaning closets stuffed to overflowing With emptiness; Running with ambivalence, Looking into the eyes of the unresolved, Fighting wrinkles or teetering on high heels – Tuxedos rushing by the tattered, Ragged holding hands with Fire dancers balancing upon tight ropes – Drinking fully from a trough Of clearest spirits, giving up thirst, Then wrestling with the fevers Of inspiration through witness eyes, Shouting across the centuries in baritone and soprano, Reaching out and gathering in – juggling balls and overflowing plates. The very marrow and the core. The words of a poet yesterday – “Pretty, hell, poetry is life.” Robert Penn Warren – June 1986