Oh! Glorious day of days!
How I love thy bloom!
(This is how I’ve read poetry;
My whole life has told me this is poetry.)
The gardener saw
broke the stalks
(This is what it becomes
(Style and function lost in artistry,
I read more poetry forced into a mold
than I do that flows from the heart.)
Nothing done in secret has ever been anything that I would hold against
My breast heaving with relief while the aged children danced in the rain.
We watched and the sun rose over Cleveland. You never loved me
like I loved the sunrise. It burned my soul at a touch, but I held it anyway.
(Prose worked into the words,
the lines moving with meaning,
this is what I thought poetry was.)
You are deceived
You are watching
shadows in the fog
move to unheard music
dancing an unseen
(Nonetheless I love the freedom
the movement of lines
and the forming of the
meaning as it is read.
I never knew you loved him
until I saw you see him.
I then knew your heart
had never been mine,
but had been his.
Is what I thought he was thinking.
She was a silhouette by the fireplace.
What is, then what is is not and is then,
however not not but is is and then then.
Which it and not are are not with each other.
This is not what it is.)
Yet life moved her to write.
He watched with envy
that paper holding so much more
than he felt his own soul could.
(I will never understand modern poetry)