poets-and-poetry

to be a poet meansto live with a permanent wound forever susceptibleto either the shade of the skyor someone's eyes.

It is kind of ridiculous that a poet is expected to live in the real world.

How....will I ever truly depict you?You__e perfect, my writing isn__.

A 21st century poet is a woman who can speak her mind and stand upright like a mountain with her convictions, but can adapt like water in an ever changing season without losing her genuine elements.

And stay, my dearstay...forever, as my quiet song,in my lilac dawn.

A single poem, alonecan turn tidesscatter galaxiesand burst forth with riversfrom paradise.

Silken strings composing the harpsichord of life accommodate a score of emotional tidings. An orchestra of linked heartbeats strumming the melodious prose of our collective intones gives rise to sonnets of melancholy, producing an illimitable libretto stretching from the milky dawn of newborn__ amaranth life to the speckled sunsets of gentle souls whom we cherish.

We hold on to poetry because it lights a fire in our soul and keeps our bodies warm.

If I began to drawmyself away from youwe__ still be liketwo mixed colors of paintimpossible to separate.

The American identity has never been a singular one and the voices of poets invariably sing, in addition to their own, the voices of those around them.

In an age when nations and individuals routinely exchange murder for murder, when the healing grace of authentic spirituality is usurped by the divisive politics of religious organizations, and when broken hearts bleed pain in darkness without the relief of compassion, the voice of an exceptional poet producing exceptional work is not something the world can afford to dismiss.

The music of revelation announces itself to the reader in somber brooding tones or in melodies light as air and one is invited to dance with the most captivating of partners: poetry.

The birth of a true poet is neither an insignificant event nor an easy delivery. Complications generally begin long before the fated soul carries its dubious light into whatever womb has been kind enough to volunteer the intricate machinery of its blood and prayers and muscles for a gestation period much longer than nine months or even nine years.

We will read books together inside the blanket and stay warm. And keep writing poetry in our respective journals. Time will fly but we will still remain inside the blanket forever.

When we were kids I begged cupid to come and shoot me.

Stop the tape, cut the paper! I will just write another poem and grab a microphone and push record again!

May the nights always be aglowwith the bliss of the daywith unharmed hands and feetand kissed cheeks.

Love me...with all the abandonof a sudden wild rain.