Poetry is the innocence that lives in each of us. It is that what makes us unique.
When we try to conform to something other than what we are, the poetry dies.
It is the stuff of kin and kindred, the stories of our past and places.
The verse that springs up from inside of us that is at once relevant, not relevant,
romantic, silly and perhaps nonsensical or crazy.
Youth will not be conquered, but overcomes with laughter and tears, joy and adventure,
Its tests the testy testers, and mocks all the rules of love and life. The jasmine blooms and
so it is with the little ones. Playing at this and that, daring to love and to win. The clouds
yield to blue skies and the wind is content to stroke many ruddy cheeks and fluff
flowing hair with the purity of a brooklet traveling through a bedroom window in the
the waking of the day, and in the waving of wildflowers afield.
Age is the platform that we arrive at while striving for success. It welcomes us on
the bus that may be going nowhere and turns many into spectators observing
the changing scenery through the windows. Alas, the bus always crashes in the end,
with great drama, and usually some tears. But all at once we are free to exit the
bus and play in the spring sunshine once again. No longer do we tire, watch TV,
read magazines, pay taxes or need.
Love is that thing which gives life and breath to all that lives in this pasture.
Love imbues the spirit with being and hope. It is the glue that holds the cosmos
in place and allows for creatures to be made from the remnants of supernovae.
Love can be seen in the face of a child, jump of the sea creature, the satin painted sunset
Heard in the song of the winged, and in the storm that replenishes mountain, field and man.
Love is a warrior set about to heal, reveal, and make new until all is well
Until the hunger of time is stilled before the caressing voice of eternity.