The Perpetual Beginner Poet

This may come as large surprise, but I did once take a beginner's poetry class which I often confuse with my beginner parenting class. In which we learned good verse and voice have structure pattern imprinting rhythm rich metaphoric content perhaps even epic regenerative story, assonant bouquet, climates of hue and cry. Who would or could a poet be or hope to at last become and yet unresponsively disagree? Not me. Even so, if what I write cannot resonate within your calling day, and hopefully tomorrow and resiliently flow on back through all your best, not worst, imagined yesterdays, Then we are not yet our resonant poetry so it is not so richly mine, nor true poetry at disfamiliar all of any kind or mean spirit natural or unnatural. Strong poetry cannot flow anonymously autonomous. My poetic muse shrinks, like wound from salt, from capital competing absent co-infested resonance resiliently wounded assonance cooperative co-governance restorative resilience of integrity's best eco-aspirations. Poetry with green me grows not only rhythmic swell and political ebb, but also liberating healthy smell and not so hoarding ego fell. Poetry praises time we share nakedly co-resonant, resplendent as spiritual underwear inviting nature's brilliant subharmonies to speak again full-voiced revival choir without degenerate autonomous naked despair In which we learn good verse and voice have structure pattern imprinting rhythm, rich analogic content, perhaps even revolutionary story, assonant bouquet, climates of secular hue and sacred silent cry.