TGIF.

The work of poetry tears down walls

It preserves memories and emotions

It opens windows and hearts

Poetry burns down bridges

And builds new ones

Thrashing through jungles of noise and chaos

It leads us to treasures 

Of peace

Like rehabilitated homes shining new

After being abandoned too long

Tin Siding clicking in the wind like a reminder

Then the hard work of fixing and then the rest

Or starting over.   have a drink!

I hate work     TGIF

Thank goodness imagination frees

there is something that doesn’t love a wall

The work of poetry opens us to make Connections 

and celebrate our humanity

Love let’s us remain here forever 

Watch moon and sun 

River and lake

Eyes mouth

Nature and artifice conspire 

To make the world 

Poetry is a sunrise of emotions 

That slides us into rapids

Backwater and quiet water. 

Poetry is an invidious litte creature

Slithering in the muck

Of the brain 

yet ready to spring forth and devour.

Taking our normal senses 

transfiguring them into divine

It is what we make what we create 

What We have begun

In the quiet moments in the cracks

Of the cerebellum 

The work of poetry is as quirky

As the new moon cafe

It’s fishing along the fox river during a poetry conference

It’s a chartreuse truck abandoned 

Under the spring green

Of a newly budded willow

Poems can sweat tears

The work of poetry is

To open the hand, to lift the veil

Just as a woman lifts her skirt

To reveal she is a universe

Or not

Poetry is the camera

Of my soul

The work of poetry is play!

The work of poetry is answering the call

To the fire Circle of our shared humanity 

Twin personas one breath

Speaking with the want emptied 

By the desire – We are all set on fire

In the blazing

Aurora of our own experience 

Healed by love 

The words splinter shards pierce

The poems skin

Opus speaks to me I attend to what they say

And write it down 

Like the drawbridges of Oshkosh 

Poetry teaches me to cross and meet 

Teaches me like the mystery vegetable at lunch

Even the sever doesn’t know

The work of poetry is a scramble in the garden shed

For a shovel pointy enough to break 

The hard pan

Below the topsoil

We we poets are the scribes of today 

The memory keepers of tomorrow.