The Game

Photo by Julia M Cameron on Pexels.com

If I could…..

If you could be any object in this world, what would you be?

It’s a game we play. If you could be a flower, what kind? A sauce,
what kind? A piece of candy, what kind?

I answer if I could be anything in the world, I’d be a poem.

The veneration of self carbon copied onto paper. Something
that can never be prescribed, a poem, has to have the human frailty.
It must be the hand put on the leg of a woman on a train who is crying.

When you try to write a poem, you are attempting the unspoken of gravity.
As a poem, people would swim in words. Some say
they would want the power of invisibility. The poem
moves things we cannot see. It precedes voice.

Frost wrote “The poem must have all five senses and then it must have a dash of spirit
in order for it to truly transcend.

Poetry belongs to no one. Poems are evanescent over time.
The roil of human emotion, the choreography of thought.

I can’t imagine being anything else but that which is scribed
from the bedrock of one’s existence. Poems talk and they listen.
They ask very little of us but to use our sense organs,
yet they are unrelenting in their telling.

When the poem is naked in it’s most undressed form
it is passion,
and who would’t want to be passion?

So if i could be anything in this world, I’d be a poem,
existing in the landscape of my reader’s fertile minds,
redolent always of new possibility.

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