Poetry Is Part 1

Poetry IS the Mother of ALL art. The completion and the part. A private punchline-divine. Be it the fruit or be it the vine. It is The IS, sometimes the Music, sometimes the Muse for us. The usery that uses us. The gizt of hearts in infatuation, of the telling apart. Insanity or bust. Between lesson and instruction. To be or it's destruction. The painting and the canvas, bared for emotions-teeth to take a bite of that sweet ****- au pair with a peculiar incisor inflection. Like a werewolf transforming with a tear, gleaming to go on a tear. Of whatever amazes or confounds us. It uplifts and surrounds us. There is poetry in a hungry infant, and the warmth of a Mother- the need pregnant, expectant. Symbiotic- Symmetry- Symbolic- Systemry- in offshoot, Automatic Ethereal firmament To drink of the bulwarks of love that cultivates the brainworks as it wallows in possibilities mud, taking thought into-the bliss-of-the asunder, of connecting string Gloriously plundered. Poetry is, A glimpse of "The Way." Sparking like a pinwheel, on freedom day, growing, blooming the flowers seed of Intensity, integrity, glowing into Life's density in sporadic release of splay. The I Am. Pied piping His signature conducting groove into our channels. As the orchestra plays. The call that we all dance to. Molding the Earth like pottery of clay. God's use of snapshots of what love should be. Has a chance to put from the reach of it's ease'. The Universe His studio, and dispensary. WE the ones fogging the lenses scope of things (needing proofs before the picture is even through/ or while the ink is still new.) Because it IS both abstract and it IS REAL. There IS Contagiousness in poetry's mental feel. Its thundering peel, uncovering, rolling. Roaring in zeal. In a symphony of opened seals. Showing like a signet ring. Shofar in the spring of knowing.