Body

If for all things the sun shines,
How many years will clouded skies be;
In every breath this stubborn heart still beats.

If for all time the tide sways,
This our song is born a river ocean blue,
And one year between a word
be a mountain before the stars.

If one loss is one too many,
Death like desert secures a drought,
And laughless men dream in their chains.

Cold is the night before the day,
If for all things the sun shines,
The sky will clear for none but you.

Finite words will never suffice
to describe the eternal
poets try their best
to extract a sense
and then, try again.

it’s like your words send rain
that washes the earth
of all aches
and leaves it clean as a mirror
then the scented light emerges
wilted plants yet manage to grow again
and you’re all sleepy eyes & bashful
maybe because we're both transparent
& the sun’s staring right through us
instead of curling up in fear
you embrace the warmth of the invader
you’ve always been that way
which brings others to heavy merriment
but with a question of
how can one remain innocent by nature
that serves nothing to the art of cynicism

Writing is not unlike fishing.

You take up the instrument
of your art, cut a raw chunk
of your heart for bait, cast
as far into your imagination
as possible and wait for
something likely to strike.

Then you reel it in, slowly
and with craft. With luck
you have caught a poem. But
quite often, just when you
think you've got it, it simply
slips away, leaving you alone,
frustrated and bewildered,
but still hoping it might be
only another cast away.

Poetry is ephemeral;
difficult to catch
when sought. Hard
to hold onto and
easily lost when caught.
All you can do is
keep the poem in play
and hope to land it
another day.

  ~mce