My poetic life these days
is all about taking sadness,
fear, angst,
and distilling them into a sour mash,
then creating an elixir for the soul.

In other words, poetry is not about purge,
but of purification,
of myself, my psyche -- how do I do that,
you ask?

Simple. I'm a man of few words,
and because
I am man of limited diction,
like Caleb did for Moses,
I let life and my universe speak for me.

For instance, take this barn near my house ...

It's timbers blighted, brittle, almost bone weary,
its middle sags,--
but its not sad, its belligerent, mean--

just one more gust of wind, it all comes crashing down,
and brother, sister,
if your around,
near it's wrath, lookout!

Or the motor court down the road ?

Paint peeling, windows broken--

but regardless of her looks-- her voice is angelic as she sings to you for another chance at supper and glory.

So you see poets,

the sun, moon,
stars, trees, structures,  streets, walls,
all laugh, scream
and weep for you --

you just have to tune your ear
to their frequency.

whit howland © 2019