IN SEARCH OF THE LOST SOCK

I recently joined Poetry Soup and the encouragement I have received from other poets has been amazing. I think I will like this site even better when I figure out how to navigate it, since I am not technology savvy. I still prefer to write long-hand or use a typewriter.

I met with my local poetry group today, face to face, to toss ideas and opinions around, slowly, like the words and poems were encased in a balloon floating lazily so everyone could take what they needed from it as it passed. We questioned what is poetry and how do you allow it to lead you on new adventures?

(In a rambling aside, for I do tend to wander a lot. But each new trail usually leads somewhere fun.) The ancient Irish believed that poems floated along fully formed on the wind, and the poets knew how to listen for them and pluck them from the air before they sauntered past.

Anyway, I am searching for the lost sock. 

THE LOST SOCK

Poetry is the lost sock

The one that never came out of the washer

The one that should be hanging on the line                           

from the empty clothespin

The one that was on your other foot

when you crawled into bed on a chilly winter night                         

and had disappeared by morning 

Without the other sock life is slightly unbalanced

Poetry is the reappearance of the lost sock

a welcome and touching sight

     fresh

            and beautiful once again