This Is Poetry

leaves of jack fruit
like operatic singers
their lips singing the
song of the wind

sun, moon, and stars
steady not on your canvass

rivers flowing and when
you touch them they
are real.They wet you.

not the cheese inside
the toilet bowl
not the sound of flushes
not the odor that kills
the sensibility of
art and beauty

not spoons on poos
not forks on fecal matters

the mockery of poetry
holy mackerel, you love it still

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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