Ars Poetica....

poetry is
sensitivity,

it is feeling
what we cannot see

it is this vast
darkness
where we pierce
with the light
in our
hearts,

it glows

it traverses
dimensions,
it links
one
to another

they are these roots
intertwining
with tendrils

poetry is
awareness
about what others
fail to know

it is
a flow of emotion
carried by the
trailers of
words,
and sound and scent
and smoke
and mist and
dew

it is the syllabication,
of an imagination
about what
is real what is touched
what is loved
and what hurts the most.

poetry is a beating
a pulse
a timer, a heckle
a tickle,
a pause,
a seizure, a cough,
it is colds
and flu
and a viral infection

and at the same
time it can be
a leisurely walk at the park
with your dog
unleashed
and jumping with too much
happiness

it is the sound of
raindrops
tripping from
the leaking roof
dripping
in our room
to the
wooden floor

it is the fluttering
butterfly
drinking nectar
from flower to
flower
so gentle and
so fragile

it is a wood drifting
in a river

a letting go
wherever it is
taken.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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