Comfort

I don’t

know why

we ever

seek comfort;

it is always —

unwaveringly —

in the moments

of discomfort,

of yearning,

that we

create.

 

Touchstone Tuesday: Poem XIII

People tell me

they don’t get

poetry.

I want

to tell them

if they’ve ever

fallen asleep

with a

broken heart

or cried

as their child

wrapped their hand

around their fingers

for the first time,

they not only

understand poetry:

they’ve been

living it

for years.

Art for Art’s Sake?

“I only love

creating and sharing art

and engaging

with other artists,”

I tell myself,

as I check

my stats page again.

 

(Does anyone else struggle with the balance of ambition and doing art for art’s sake?)

Touchstone Tuesday: Poem IX

I edit my work,

but not early

as often

as my work

edits me.

Touchstone Tuesday: Poem VIII

A poem is not a poem
if it doesn’t rhyme.
And a song isn’t music
if it’s out of time.
Language isn’t proper
if the grammar falls,
and a piece isn’t literature
until a publisher calls.

But, the listener laughs,
for he knows
that art is actually
full of shadows —
without rhythm
and without form,
art isn’t order
but, instead, a wild storm.
To burden word
with prescriptive rules
and to press down expression
as if a footstool
is to empty art
of its power,
to pluck to death
a vibrant flower.

Strong Language

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