Poetry Is …
Poetry is a new dawn on an unsuspecting day,partially full of bright lights and cherries. Poetry is a
blow out for my birthday and the living dead on sale
though peace is misunderstood. Poetry is infused with
sweetness and temper and organized for the reactive war
destined to reclaim our humanity. Poetry is
you and me and the planet and the galaxy and
the big bang and …
the end.
© Catherine Woods 2017
Poetry Was …
Those words those poets wrote, still stand
against the ages, between then and now. The meter, that they
voiced, held aloft the days of time unscripted. Above all else,
his wisdom brought forth his purpose, and, without his genius,
we could not hope to travel to ancient lands or make mysteries unfold.
Why is the purpose of one letter followed by another yet unclear?
What keeps his meaning clear for you and not for me?
Is all he said forgotten by the passages of days and hours or
are those gems of shade and colour and prose and phrase lost
in a space of ideal reverence unclaimed? Weep no more. Wish
upon a starry, starry night and see truth as beauty and beauty truth.
Inside a vision is a hidden message;
we are all alone, within ourselves
completed.
© Catherine Woods 2017
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