PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I sometimes wonder,

An in a Pirsig way,

The man who wrote: Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenence,

Whose whole book was a search for beauty,

Only to find it subjective and objective,

Driving the man crazy in the end.



I wonder what makes this line or that line profound,

What verb or noun exacts our conscious thought?



I could simplify poetry as:

Let N = Noun

Let V = Verb

Let Av = Adverb

Let Aj = Adjective...



And we all know that we've heard lines:

"Roses are red,

Violets are blue,"

But what seperates limerick from true poetry?



"The dog ran."

A simple sentence.

"He ran to chase the can."

Now is this poetry?



Or, what about:

"The dog laughed to see such a sport,

And the dish ran away with the spoon."

Conceivably, this makes no sense,

But most infants in America have probably heard it once.



So can one say that the N-V sentence IS poetry?

Poetry like all else is in the eyes of the beholder,

It is the undergirding of our conscious to be shared,

It is the sound of song in our step,

It is the voice of a nation all balled up together

In that amazing amendment designating free speech.



To define what poetry is and isn't,

Is to define what speech is and isn't,

And if we do this, then our first amendment rights narrow

Into the confines of what a government thinks we as citizens,

SHOULD HAVE A RIGHT TO SAY.



Poetry stalks, poetry angers,

Poetry has assasinated evil,

It kills the lion while he is sleeping,

It rousts sleeping dogs from wonderful dreams.



Poetry celebrates life and birth,

It enhances every daily life with richness,

Of "I love you", "I miss you", "Peace be with you."

It tells our loved ones "Thank-you."



It reaches beyond the algebraic equations of simple constructions, and yet, it doesn't even have to make sense.

Poetry moves us in song, unites nations, and burns them down.



Poetry has a juxaposition between language & interpretation.

A writer puts into words what is in his or her own heart,

But once on paper, the intention can fly to the wind---

Because experience is different.



Meaning gleened is for the sake of the reader, now.

A cathartic experience for the writer?  Not always.



So why write?

For me, writing is breathing.

If I do not try to convey my heart, mind and soul,

If I cannot express myself in the simplest forms available,

My mind rages against me like a storm,

Ideas fester in me like a caldera volcano.

And there is no damming up this endless supply of song,

From my mind, my heart, my soul.



For me,

Writing is a passion,

Like the zest of lemon in a cake.

Words fill my head like yeast in bread.

I can even get hypergraphic.



My biggest hope is that my ideas spin in profoundness,

Like the princess who spun straw into gold...

I want not to just touch people,

But carefully take their hand,

And place it on my heart,

So they can feel



ALL OF ME

  

     My heart,

        My mind,

           My soul,

              My essence,



Beating and thriving in their palm.



Words are respirations for me to seek a way to BE "UNDERSTOOD."



Poetry is love beyond love,

Sacrifice beyond sacrifice.



For me, it will be my last breath...

If nothing else can be heard,

You will feel my heart.