The tap-dripped drop’s lost in a bowl
while inconspicuous ants are blown to dust.
Our quickened selves have ghosthood as our
goal.
The universe? It passes – as we must.
Free verse and formal, narrative to confessional to modernist styles, interesting themes, striking images, differing viewpoints, depth of insight, the will to write and think - all are important to the poetry-minded.
The tap-dripped drop’s lost in a bowl
while inconspicuous ants are blown to dust.
Our quickened selves have ghosthood as our
goal.
The universe? It passes – as we must.
These
days,
I
rarely see the particular
unless
I am lured by the rose,
the
effective daffodil,
sheet
rain as it slopes blue
down
roof slates.
My
eyes are for blue
beyond
the seasoned sky,
its
rainbows, its rushing dawns,
a
flash to uplift grass
greyed
at the root
by
my worn shoes.
When
I am bigger, I will cull clouds,
puffs
blown out of the endless.
I
will pull down all the days’ darks,
watch
cobwebs crackle to dust.
I
will polish the blue
so
it brightens to white
and
light light