[link to www.youtube.com]

Poetry is....


this….
Capturing the river in its meanderings, and each swirling current caught on a snag beneath the surface, the sparkling jewels over the rapids, and the smooth river stones wet and rippled in mottled tones.

Its painting the clouds as they hit the peak of a mountain range and rush like smoke fireless down the other side, or sit low in valleys, a blanket sheltering temperate forests where the only sound is the small droplets of condensation rolling off one leaf onto another stepping down from lush canopies to marshy groves where vines form the solid land mass.

Poetry is melting sand as it falls through your fingers forming delicate glass cascades to be forever frozen in time transformed. Understanding what the gnarly old tree has withstood for over a thousand years against the elements of time, and how the rain now burns its roots. Its dancing with the gypsy behind her mysterious eyes weaving her wrists to the sun all tiny bells and elegant fingers splayed just so just right.

The tiny mouse foot prints spilled from an ink well that was left out of an old Rembrandt master piece, hopping across one of his beloved books on philosophy blotting out the lines about an inner light he searched for, but he loved his shadow so dearly in his loses.

Unbolting each finger so as to send them away to be reconditioned to remedy writers block and stiff knuckles from that last nightmare where you drove your own nails though the palms of your hands.

Its counting each fragment as you attempt to glue together that china dinner plate that was thrown to the floor, and the feeling it left in your stomach at it smashed.

Poetry is walking naked on a warm summers day through empty fields and describing how the gentle breeze plays with your hair like soft feathers over your back and causes pleasant shivers through your whole being inside and out.

The feel of soft green grass on bare feet.

The courtship of the bowerbird and his obsession with the blues, and why his lady thinks him more attractive the bluer he is.

Poetry is the whispered prayer from those who don’t pray, rituals of candles and neroli oil, Pettitgrain, pencil, paper and tear filled eyes.

Poetry is hiding in plain view or begging to be heard or bleeding without blood and dieing without death as well as throwing open doors, breaking windows, opening chapters, swooning openly, lusting after life, and love falling through pages like lead shot.

It’s a child’s kiss goodnight and sleepy morning eyes.

Pillars we build our selves to pink nebulous like magic dragons and galactic stars of old where weightless we drift in admiration for the endless expanse of imagination birthed in dreams and possibilities.

I don’t really write of any of these things, beautiful things, I am not a poet, but I try.



:siteless