Poetry is...
A happy day, all holidays
And March Twenty First
It is a smile of a passerby
At a crosswalk in Times Square
After 911
When everything tastes like soot
Someone sees you
In the city's ossification of the soul
With all that is unjust
And with every separation
That fear wounds us
The fickle eyes we humans
Worship by
At least someone sees you
In this amoebic herd
Risking to get across the traffic
Precariously held by red
When green is safe
Is good / is Go /
It's a day
And a healthy sign of life
Here on March Twenty First,
Poetry is
A bright sun,
A Holiday.
Poetry quenches our
Withins
The soul's
Deep thirst.
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 2:28 PM UTC
Poetry is...
A happy day, all holidays
And March Twenty First
It is a smile of a passerby
At a crosswalk in Times Square
After 911
When everything tastes like soot
Someone sees you
In the city's ossification of the soul
With all that is unjust
And with every separation
That fear wounds us
The fickle eyes we humans
Worship by
At least someone sees you
In this amoebic herd
Risking to get across the traffic
Precariously held by red
When green is safe
Is good / is Go /
It's a day
And a healthy sign of life
Here on March Twenty First,
Poetry is
A bright sun,
A Holiday.
Poetry quenches our
Withins
The soul's
Deep thirst.
Poetry (#7). Written on a whim, pardon it's banality.
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