Unheard Soliloquies
Show me what poetry means.
I cannot find the method
amongst a writing sea of words
that twist and turn on themselves
until no white spots are left
between scribbled lines of
Crayola creativity.
You read your poetry aloud, afraid
the dramatic pauses will be lost
if left alone to another interpretation.
You tell yourself that every line
is worth an hour of scrutiny.
I say
you have missed the point entirely.
A scream is a scream. Heard. Unheard.
It is an emotional epiphany only if
the thing is unplanned. Unchecked.
The grey dots scattered in a grid of
black squares, poetry disappears
under a direct gaze. Skittish.
A shy child hiding behind the skirts
of maternal syllables.
Quicksand metaphors.
A ghost that slips in and out
of view. Elusive elixir.
Struck with blinding intensity
at the moment of the Ah-ha!
The trembling hips and lips
of a thing loved at just
the right tempo. Temptuous.
The perspiration of passion
beading into pools of
congealing thought.
Lava lamp of ideas
that float and merge
in majestic silence.
A monolith of muse.