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The Essence Of Being Poetic.

Updated on February 1, 2010



Oh, Those sweet

visions of po-etchings

scratched out in fevered burst

upon the bonded papers

and mixed with the sharp tangs

of the inks flow

or the rhythmic tapping

of nails on keys

opening minds to

other possibilities.


Plus the perfection

of the eraser

the ultimate critique

whether by the

deletion of thoughts

the correction of mistakes

or simply rubber crumbs

swept away with a sigh.


The poetic essence

becomes volumes

of words bottled up

and then poured over

china white surfaces

as if the meat of the matter

is tastefully marianated

and allowed to ferment there,

till it intoxicates

the cultured massed

starving for enlightenment.


The poetic essence

rises and stands

proudly within the

screaming rants of

the bearded prophets

in coffeehouse assemblies,

and can be blended with

the cooing songs of nature

from a tiny 90 years old poetess...

who weaves pictures

like nest in the craniums

of the entranced.



Poetry's essence is

pouring over the earth

in many forms,

it slithers and slinks

it soars and then struts,

it lingers or languishes

in the drawers of the dreamers.



It is the lifeblood of the idealists

and the bane of the practical

who need much more technical

works to supplement

their needs to succeed.



It is my dearest companion

and has sustained me through

loves lost and loves found,

lives taken and lives saved.



It is an endless fountain penned

into a wondrous creation of God speak

uttered through the

mouths of commen men.



It is po-etched on

the pulp of trees

that feed the roots of mankind

with the turnings

of each of its many pale leaves.



Thus I reflect on

loves past and old haunts

that I spirit myself away to.

Childhood yards

now empty of houses,

beaches long drained

of tourists where I once

kissed the most stunning

of girls in the universe.

and then later let her

slip like sand

between my fingers.



Finger painted

wet cement bearing

hearts and initials long since

jackhammered into what ifs....

and gravestones that mark

the places of those 

I cherish most

who now remain

in the forbidden embrace

of eternities grasp

leaving me seperated too long.



Some of my faintest memories

stir me to passions long dormant

and dreams long thought lost.



All of those what if's

which are the hooks

in the questions marks

that hang me snugly over

a period I can scarcely forget.



For we all breath

of the same dust

and regurgitate

the same air

great lovers knew.




We gaze upon the

same cratered moon

and count the same stars

as we lie wrapped

in each others arms,

after the glow of love

becomes a pilot light

for our hearts.




We are but another era

of true loves that future

lovers will romanticize over

somewhere down

some lovers lanes

not yet traveled

nor realized.




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    • pbwriterchick profile image

      pbwriterchick 8 years ago

      Beautiful. Simply beautiful. :)

    • Artamia profile image

      Artamia 8 years ago from GTA, Canada

      Dear MFB III,

      YOU /breath/live POET-ry indeed:

      """We are but another era

      of true loves that future

      lover will romanticize over

      somewhere down

      some lovers lanes

      not yet traveled

      nor realized...."""

      Great LOVE "MAP"..

      and love is always a two-way road...

      found without GPS...[?]

      • Thank-You for the impressionist picture...


    • profile image

      seasoning 8 years ago

      very true. Nice one, long for you, but not at all boring, i enjoyed it very much