Your prayer can be poetry, and poetry can be your prayer.
poetry: about
Logic all
If the world were all logic, poetry would starve to death.
Narrative
Age composes poems
upon our faces —
with more meaning
and fewer rhymes
every passing year
Abridged
Just so you know, I lied about my weight on my poetic license.
Poetherapy
Writing poetry
is letting go —
once the words leave your pen
they’re out of your soul —
and the therapy has begun.
Inching along, leaving behind
the poet is a sensitive snail —
wandering along the path of life
leaving a glittering trail of words
From the library to the park
Happiness is sharing a bowl of cherries and a book of poetry with a
Long ago now
I am searching for my feelings
through shelves of dusty books
can’t help but feel I’ve left them
in some forgotten ancient nooks
as if an author long before me
captured my emotions in his day
and saved them in fine poetry
for future me to find someway
Dreams & ink
Poetry is reverie on paper. Poets are daydreamers
A curious glimmering thing
“Time has proved that the function of poetry is not to impart messages, but to explore the depths of emotion.
“The poet is never a teacher, but always a learner. His poem is a venture at perilous discovery. The fact of writing is not the recording of something already known to the poet; it is his method of bringing to the light things that were previously in darkness for him.
“The aim of poetry is to capture those rare moments of the poet’s experience when, for good or for evil, the consciousness of life sweeps through him like a flame… the moments when he becomes passionately aware of the crises of his spirit’s secret drama, and sees a pattern taking shape in the void, and words of utterance come singing to his lips.
“Out of that dizzy instant he emerges, bewildered but excitedly hopeful, bringing with him his poem. Here, he says, is a curious glimmering thing that I discovered far down in the sea of my dimly conscious spirit: perhaps it will have a fascination for you, too; perhaps you, too, will see in its pale sphere some hint of the iridescent lights that played on its surface when in those vast deeps I found it.”
—Arthur Davison Ficke (1883–1945), “The Nature of Poetry,” 1926
Umber
there are only so many poems one can write
about umber tree roots and the glowing moon
before the psyche starts crying out to be heard
the suffering of the world isn’t poetic
but it is essential to poetry
Cracked
her head was cracked —
not tragically, just poetically
it’s how the poems got in —
and out
Posy
Look! over yonder
what a beautiful
field of wildpoems