Sunday, June 2, 2013

In the Air

He nods at my notebook,
"You write?"
I feel my brows furrow
"Since I was in kindergarten.
started with the alphabet
then put 'em together
  to make words.
then sentences

eventually came paragraphs
  those were tough, but
I think I managed to mastered them."
He doesn't balk at the subtle
a small smirk buds at the corner
  of his lips, "I meant,
do you write poetry?"
"Poetry?"  I shake my head
raise a brow at  his audacity to think
  I write poetry.

             No...I    *sigh*
                           I breathe
I hear, taste, smell, see,
         touch poetry.
but write poetry?
I would never be so presumptuous."
"Well then," he pulls out a chair,
     settles in, "you've peaked my interest,
what does poetry sound, taste,
                    smell,  look and feel like?"

I sized him up for a moment
   deemed him worthy

"it sounds
    like the musical serenade of the cicadas;
 it tastes
    like copper from a bloody lip;

 it smells
    like salty ocean waves lapping at the shore line;
 it looks
    like the wrinkled old eyes of a lover's gaze;
 it feels
    like distressed furniture -- smooth in spots -- rough
                     in others."
"Hmm..."  he sat back -- thought-filled eyes
         staring into nothing;
As the cloud passed he looked up at me,
"The cicadas
                    really do
quite beautiful
"Yes; yes they do."  and we sit
          silently breathing in the poetry
                                        surrounding us.


Brian Miller said...

smiles...very cool write...and run do write poetry...and breathe it...its the taking it in so we can let it back of my favs for sure...smiles.

Mary said...

You know, this is beautiful.

Those of us who feel the same know exactly what you mean!

I CAN tell you live and breathe poetry!! Smiles.

Nico said...

Moved me deeply with this one--you have the poetic approach to life nailed down tight here. Great work!