I am a retired Ironworker(35 years Local 7), a lifetime Boston, Mass resident. I am old enough to know better - but don't.
So, just what is poetry? An endless attempt ot rhyme with orange? A forever searching of the soul for meaning? An idyll fantasy a-dance with alliteration's riffs? An individual search for "our" Holy Grail? Perhaps a distant song forever playing in our heads, sung softly neath the murmur of the day. Pitons driven into the stony crust of life. A mud puddle inviting us to make mud pies, rekindle the joy of soft pliable words shaping a moment. To forever ponder the question of "who makes the best mud pies?