Perpetual rhythms
Pleasure, pain
Emotions' tides
Wax, wane.

Poetry making should not be restrained by words.  
If a poem demands a soundmeaning that our language does not offer,
Creative license allows us to make newwords!    

Methinks this rule should also apply to prosetry.

Most poetry writing
Is like a nighttime ****,
Standing or sitting in the dark
Aiming as we let it flow.

We judge by the sweet sound
Of the deeper splash
When we’re on the target,
And hope our line stays true.

We squeeze most poems and ****** out
To get relief
From a nagging feeling
Deep inside.

The deviations of our stream
Spilled silent to the side
Oft require
Clean-up.

And the outcome
With that faint stale smell
Is probably better flushed away
Than saved or shared or admired.

From foragers swinging in the trees
To hunters striding through the grass
The sun and watery sphere ruled us.

As civilized we learned to farm
To shape and harness beast and grass
Our fathers struggled with the Gods.

Now sins of fire, bow and axe and plow.....
Our **** in orbit, fouling deep in ground
All decay and rain upon our heads.

9/24/2011