The test for poetry is if you can taste it with your bones!
Poems are not fossilized insects, caught mid-buzz
in amber, shakespeared museum pieces
with the correct number of feet in the meter,
waiting to be dusted off and counted,
or fizzed in pop culture, orange soda shaken
and hallmarked to the singsong tick
of a driveled metronome.
It’s not about form anymore.
This playing tennis without a net
volleys inside what’s spoken–call it poetry
or pretty prose, the difference is felt in the bones,
strung by breath and assonance if we have ears for it,
or blood pulled by a moon in full perigee, and the surety
of knowing night sings to us in the voices of crickets,
certain as day shouts the hard blue of sky, broken
by sunlight and poured into valleys.
A Dali is no da Vinci, though his art filters light
like stained glass does sun, from somewhere under the canvas,
and van Gogh stars reel over the world
View original post 30 more words
Reflections 
Noel, thanks for the reblog! I am honored.
LikeLike
Susan, your creativity never ceases to amaze me! and your poem is therapeutic in a way for me as I never could master master rhymes! I thrive in sterile alliterations – and I am not happy with that! Wish I could write like you!
LikeLike
Noel, I enjoy your alliterations, and would never call them sterile. Your poetry rollicks, rolls and leaps with sound, and I love it.
LikeLike
Hi, Noel! Just passing by to let you know I’ve nominated you for a Liebster Award.
Read it here: http://saraletourneau.wordpress.com/2013/05/28/the-liebster-award/
Congratulations! 😉
~ Sara
LikeLike
the honor should be Susan’s. she wrote the poem.
LikeLike