Poetry, Indeed

We live awash in swirled analogy,

As meaning must, within contextual knowns

Be placed, so as to make a tapestry

Of concepts, bordering on homophones


I write myself, inside myself, each day,

Then try to cross, adjacently, to you;

It’s poetry, indeed, that is the way,

Familiar, placed aside the strange and new


As boats that ride the storm towards the light

Are like the hopes we hold with all else gone;

So poetry is like the world itself –

A place to stand together

And upon

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