Poetry is....

this….
Capturing the river in its meanderings, and each swirling currant caught on a snag beneath the surface, the sparkling jewels over the rapids, and the smooth river stones wet and rippled in mottled tones.
Its painting the clouds as they hit the peak of a mountain range and rush like smoke fireless down the other side, or sit low in valleys like a blanket sheltering temperate forests where the only sound is the small droplets of condensation rolling off one leaf onto another stepping down from lush canopies to marshy groves where vines form the solid land mass.
Poetry is melting sand as it falls through your fingers forming delicate glass cascades to be forever frozen in time transformed. Understanding what the gnarly old tree has withstood for over a thousand years against the elements of time, and how the rain now burns its roots. Its dancing with the gypsy behind her mysterious eyes weaving her wrists to the sun all tiny bells and delicate fingers splayed just so just right.
The tiny mouse foot prints from an ink well that was left out of an old Rembrandt master piece that hopped across one of his beloved books on philosophy blotting out the lines about inner light he searched for, but he loved his shadow so dearly in his loses. Unbolting each finger so as to send them away to be reconditioned to remedy writers block and stiff knuckles from that last nightmare where you drove your own nails thought the palms of your hands. Its counting each fragment as you attempt to glue together that china dinner plate that was thrown to the floor, and the feeling it left in your stomach at it smashed.
Poetry is walking naked on a warm summers day through empty fields and describing how a gentle breeze plays with your hair like soft feathers down your back and causes pleasant shivers over your whole being inside and out. The feel of soft green grass on bare feet. The courtship of the bowerbird and his obsession with the blues, and why his lady thinks him more attractive the bluer he is. Poetry is the whispered prayer from those who don’t pray, rituals of candles and neroli oil, Pettitgrain, pencil, paper and tear filled eyes. Poetry is hiding in plain view or begging to be heard or bleeding without blood and dieing without death as well as throwing open doors breaking windows opening chapters swooning openly lusting after life and love falling through pages like lead shot. It’s a child’s kiss goodnight and sleepy morning eyes. Pillars we build our selves to pink nebulous like magic dragons and galactic stars of old where weightless we drift in admiration for the endless expanse of imagination birthed in dreams and possibilities.
I don’t really write of any of these things, I am not a poet.

Reviews

[Sam Freeland]

You are a fine poet
with every word you show it
While we know less of your heart
You are a world apart
What we say in review
is the best we can do
Write every day
we will love all that too...I have learned by reading your work, as so many others have learned. sam

[Solst Rapture]

Poetry is the tears that I cry, not the reasons why. It is the music I listen too that captures you. It's that voice that makes me feel as if I am never going to forget myself, like an open wound without the need to heal, no lid on the stormy tune. The only thing I know is how terribly melancholy poetry is to me...I sacrifice my mind and sit alone with my heart. There's too much in my past, nothing last long enough for me to ever feel safe. Time has passed through me and it's easy to pretend, as someone once said to me, I know how this story will end. I think I'd rather run away and hide than tell everyone they don't yet realize.

But poetry is what poetry is to whoever is feeling it.

"Pillars we build our selves to pink nebulous like magic dragons and galactic stars of old where weightless we drift in admiration for the endless expanse of imagination birthed in dreams and possibilities.
I don�t really write of any of these things, I am not a poet."

Poetry is what the poet feels, not what the poet writes. The established Poet feels freely and writes freely.

If I were to call you, ooohioooo, my girl, you'd look into my word and see what you know you can see, and maybe you'll miss what I got in my life, my soul, the scrubbing need to survive. Maybe you see that I like whisky. But who knows just why there's this difference between the outside and the inside. Sometimes I don't like to be fenced in, I just want to get between these lives.

Any writing that makes me write, is written from someone that is longing to communicate. There is a difference sometimes and I notice it by not feeling like I want to write back. I can't stop myself here. I want to write word after word talking about what to do what to do what to do.......the thimble crashes down...

It was always a nice moment when I write and shed tears over all this stuff...staring over this empty space, missing my face, my purpose and my place. Take care, wherever you came from.

[Emily B]

Poetry is all these things. And you, my friend, are a poet. No arguments.

[kurrupted]

Wow!....multifacetly insightful, weldone.

[poddar kushal]

your writing is a blotting paper that has soaked philosophy, beauty of the words, vissions as seen by a liberal eye , a mind that has absorbed a language of the universe and my attention.

[jeRRy.whaLLey]

-- writing is never about praise its about discovery and wonder -- watching a simple stream bubbling and meandering, glimmering many Suns is a synergy of connectivity and dead forms and rituals like labels of 'praise me the Poet' cannot keep pace with Truth as its revelations are always roiling and writhing Beauties for eyes that see and change for Hearts with wings of why that fly in rhythms rising on thermals of wonder to a farther sky -- that is why the Poet is ever creating, destroying, sleeping and dreaming himHERself anew -- a neverending process with reality as a placeholder 'til sHe can engender a new universe out of the bits and pieces of the old one -- in hisHER image -- and as the writing lifts off the monitor as light in the eye of the reader they become the Poet reborn -- the Poet is dead long live the Poet and her name is Armada Armada Armada -- you dissolved yourself and me in this write grrl as in the Garden of Hearts these distinctions of you or I no longer exist! wondrous writing, just wondrous!

[TL Boehm]

this is incredibly beautiful prose poetry. I am so glad you are sticking around the cafe. Send me read requests on your work...I will definitely read.