Rambling Poetry

Poetry is tangerine and other potent or poisonous colors. It is the breath you feel at the nape of your neck and the strong caress of flesh on flesh, defying death. It is most certainly Spring with petal flutters and jays flittering about. Melodies come alive…words almost too ravishing to versify…like brilliant diamonds and crystal lines. Poetry is rhyme and not…it is time well spent. The clock doesn’t give a hoot. It’s cuckoo to stand on your head to get just the right angle, the geometric high. Likewise, the adjustment on a thin wire, with ink blots to examine. But a poet does, again and again, pounding at raw meat, to settle a matter…but we never settle…there is always one thing more. Death, maturity, seasonals. Let’s dig up that grave. First we jump in, holding onto leaves dyed in various tinctures. Often we swing over, on our trapeze, thinking we are invincible - we don’t see the six foot ravine. Not feeling trapped at all, until the Ice Queen shows up. We paint that buttercup white, as if it were virtuous. She vividly holds up the scales to weigh our slights, to slow us down…now, we dribble upon the page…drivelling every nuance, as if our kids (our words) were leaving home and we need to drill just one more thing. Sadly our words will hang and slowly scroll away…our scribbles fondly remembered by a few for a while (and our smile) Paint giraffes ouside the line, and gaffes - keep them in time. Don’t be afraid to annunciate or not…to be literate or alliterative…to be silly…oh do be silly…to be human… to be common or uncommon…we all have our place. We are the apostrophes, colons and periods. We stop in mid-sentence a lot. We throw the hammer down with an exclamation point or dot. We write run ons or put out briefs. We admire awe. This is just a small treatise of thought…a mud pie, but certainly not a prize…but I say, the prize is in the beholder’s stall. 3/13/2023