Poetry is a political bomb,
a psychological war,
a primal roar for restoration.
Poetry is that idea of yours,
this idea of mine,
another idea from over yonder,
and the fact that we can all exist
in the same sentence structure
without blowing each other to Kingdom Come.
Poetry is kaleidoscopic in nature,
splashed with waves of neon fluorescence,
operating through the use of wavelengths
that can’t quite pierce the veil
of worldly dimension and form.
Poetry opened its peepers as the dust settled;
took a breath before the garden grew.
Poetry never looks at itself in the mirror
because its reflection is always changing.
Poetry has our best interest in mind,
but that doesn’t mean it won’t sometimes
rattle our brains with a riddle.
Poetry motioned laughter into existence
to take the edge off creation’s furrowed brow.
Poetry was bathed in a river
where poisoned serpents were known to dwell,
was only bitten a few times,
survived with a cool scar and bloodshot eyes.
Poetry is the last refuge of a philosopher
who has grown weary of too much on the nose rhetoric.
Poetry always wears a mask
while at the same time
it’s busy exposing deeper truths.
Poetry is the point at which all pretense
and peacocking flamboyance is done away with,
and you decide to just shoot straight.
