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Poetic Justice … you can take it with you

Journalism reports yesterday’s news.
Like the weather,
it needs no re-cap.
No sense keeping that around.

Fiction tells a good story.
Entertaining, butĀ unless
those characters make a home with us,
one and done.

yet…

Poetry bears telling and re-telling,
reading and re-reading.
Poems speak newness,
reading into us, as we are new.
The one we are (the me who reads)
is new, with each reading.

peotry words

Yesterday’s poem
holds no sway over today’s me.
Perhaps, a look and see
at how it affected me.
How I landed there. then.

But today lifts off into a new wind,
under new weather conditions.
Today the poem is a completely new flight.
New flight plan, same pilot.

There is no quenching living words,
they continue to speak:
to draw the heart out
to fill the soul up
to still, no activate, no ignite, no…
distill … can’t make up my own mind,
must let it make itself.

These are powerful words that propel me:
to places I’d never go otherwise,
with people I’d never meet otherwise,
except
that I came to the poem,
and it met me there
but didn’t leave me there,
didn’t leave me at all.
It stayed.

What is a poet
but one who lives a life that speaks?
Your life speaks.
It’s poetry
as you write it —
see how it changes you,
as you write
and they,
as they read.

Write that.

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Is life erasable or indelible?

Pen-vs-Pencil

If I could write the words of life
in pencil and not pen,

erase that bit, re-draft that part,
try out that ending, then…

Penciled in, not permanent,
what a better life I’d live.

Take some chances, try stuff out,
Oh what I wouldn’t give.

Wait, that pencil is right here,
it’s sharpened in my hand.

Sketching, drawing, please erase,
do brush away that sand.

Darker, firmer this one comes,
it may be meant to stay.

Will you please put that in pen?
Someone might read it someday.

Not Your Usual Bouncer

Ready…go!

Each set off
at his own pace
with her own rhythm
in their own style.

tennis-balls-bouncing
Bounce.. bounce…. bounce. bounce…boun..ce bounceee.. bou..bbounce

Tennis balls,
in their joy and merriment,
leaping and playing,
of their own accord.

Until
bounce..bounce.bounce..bounce..bounce.bounce..bounce.
Became
bounce.bounce.bounce.bounce.

They were finished, then.
Fallen in,
Rank and file,
Orderly. Procession.

Oh, the sound.
Calling me,
To sameness, calm,
quiet, appeasement, rhythm.

So easy to slip in,
under the waves,
along for the ride,
go with the flow.

There was another sound.
Quiet, but clear.
Of opportunity beckoning,
between the bouncing,
between the bouncing.

Growing louder,
more insistent.
Am I the only one who hears it?

Close ranks! Tighten up!
and…Bbbbbbbbounce.
Rapid fire. Precision.
Poise. Focus.

Deliberately different.
Not disruptive,
Distinct.

It was a competition, after all.
There was a Prize.

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