Very Far To Go
Sometimes I'm writing poetry
and other times it seems
I'm pushing words around
as a way to have dreams
with no solution or resolution
to the question: what is Is?
Following some pattern
with a myriad of names
in order to push words into a Form
that, often, when I hear it read
seems dead.
Dead to spontaneity, dead to frivolity.
Must poetry remain so staid,
so reserved, so used as a significant ruse
of persnickety profundity
or philosophical platitudes?
Yawn.
I only want Now to be what Is ...
words that just go on and on and on
hoping always that I have very far to go.
Copyright © Sue Mason | Year Posted 2009
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