The Poetic Process.
Updated on January 10, 2010
Liquid thoughts
are generated
by a seemingly
endless flow of blood,
that penetrates and opens
fluent keys to the brain cells,
flowing in electrical synapses
to the muscles of our arm.
Moving our hands
that grip the stylus pressing,
liquid thoughts onto the page.
"Therapy for a bleeding mind."
An outpouring of emotions,
scrawled on the pounded,
ground up remnants,
of trees we never climbed.
But their roots run deep,
back through the poetic renderings
in charcoal on cave wall dwellings,
mysterious etchings that
brought the good hunt.
They grip the soil
where Poe walked
in his tortured musings,
where Frost paused
in wintry splendour,
as his horse puzzled
over the comma in its life,
they flow in the gutters
of Sandberg's citys.
We are blessed with a gift
that only the gods can render,
we are their pens,
gripped tightly in mighty hands,
speaking parables to those
who cannot speak in liquid thoughts,
yet hunger to read
what the heavens can shed.
©-MFB III
