Though poetry requires
a sense of rhythm-form
(for clear recognition)
approach varies greatly,
the size of the word-ship
and runway --
whether calm sailing
or raging storm --
an even glide
or extreme dive alarm --
the pilot of his poem
the Imager of his sea and sky,
some plot more
while others, haphazardly
simply take-off and fly --
what is poetry?
what is living?
calmly controlled aspirations
while the athlete pushing beyond
safe limits, what we are
secure with~ or also phantasmagoric?
thus having choice of Free-range
a poet, I believe, will often test his craft
will chance a dunk and raft
will test his life
will break-ranks
and recklessly
daringly explore it!
Olive’s Cinnamon Bark
It took her some while to sense the meaning of feeling good in her skin
Her mirror her prism her mosaic glass and the mist on the crystal of time
At first it had appeared to project a tarnished reflection of yesteryear’s
Cinnamon Bark of Youth
A silver hair dropping its flair onto laughter lines and sorrow grooves
The imager an hour glass of pleaded messages to tempt with gloss and mask
To stifle the miracle silken touch with unkind uncalled for varnished perplexion’s
Olive Shine of Middle Age
Still a child at heart tanned by weather of challenges growth blissfully wild
Perception perspective’s inclusion recovered beauty never lost but adorned
With garnished collection of scent’s senses and unspoken images to become
Acorns of Seniority
27 March 2018
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