I sometimes find poetry which causes something to move within me that really matters, with every verse, every word…and its often, when rare and precious found…so far beyond what most other people I am aware of existing can feel and know and move to, that I…yearn to play such sounds to the sparrows and wombats and deer in the forest, and seek mutual appreciation with them, to experience something as pure as the wind rustling through the leaves, or the waves crashing against the sand, with everything they have…to bridge the divide and find communion in the appreciation of the purest expressions of humanity with all species.
Ive become cowardly,
scared of finding solace and nourishment in a cabin in the forest,
instead clinging to the drones and dull vanity dealers,
under their clipped wings…
a caged poet hiding even his own bars.
And yet I’m not the poet others consider,
often with a smirk,
and that smirk is well fitting…for most poets are awful and just lame me me me with nothing to say of meaning and causing anyone to be moved, where it matters…
I am just more open,
hellbent on diving into my own well and cutting the ropes,
writing my way out of the abyss where my essence lurks most primal,
and all things can be found,
when I emerge…a skin shed…
I am blinded by the light,
yet bring back something new and vital.
and maybe I know more words to use than others.
All the self professed poets I know,
say little in their ‘poetry’ which moves me.
for it seems like they have been working the word,
writing, then changing, then editing, then adding, then subtracting,
that ain’t art to me.
for it aint pure.
The most beautiful aspects of life happen without practice,
without seeking an audience,
without needing adulation, applause, stroking of the ego,
it just happens, with perhaps an aim in the moment,
but its all about the moment in time when it reveals itself.
And that is how I see my writing,
its a moment in time which reveals itself naked, wild, free and wide open…
like the waves crashing upon the shoreline,
the deluge of rain dropping from the clouds,
the blizzards with no agenda,
but leaving the earth they find changed,
for a moment in time…
before they melt and something else happens.
Life should be a celebration,
of the bliss, agony, beauty, pain, suffering, hope, dreams and the world around us which provides us with all of these things.
We should be chasing all of the beauty and trying to avoid all of the horror.
And when the horror comes,
that is the making of everyone…
so where to find those who have braved the storms and come out still with their soul showing and their spirit rabid and vital and all fangs…
is where I need to aim myself.