Poetry can produce
both pretty potions and
puddles of pain-puree.
It is where
a heart can be
thrown into a blender,
set to low- when happiness
is life's main ingredient;
it is a lovely mixture
of water and sugary hope
becoming the final product:
a fruity concoction,
poured over brightly-colored paper
and toped with an umbrella-
in case the joy doesn't last.
But it can also be where
a glass filled to the brim
with tears is stored away
in memory’s freezer
to become solidified
so we can place it into
that poetic blender
as ice turns to crushed bits-
manageable pieces-
and is plopped onto
the pure sheet,
melting into words.
A simple appliance,
a contraption for
sorting out emotions:
feelings fermented
and smeared on the page.