Oh, Those sweet
visions of po-etchings
scratched out in fevered burst
upon 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 year old poetess...
who weaves pictures
beyond knittede brows
and into 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 breathe
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.
