the sea writes its own poetry

the breeze doesn’t care, it sings

essays drift by on falling leaves

petals wither and tell stories


i have marked my world

with limits and laws

i have shut out my poetry

silenced my song


i undulate and meters get set

i whistle through and melody begins

i fall and a world gets composed

i die and the story is told


where have you hidden your poetry

where have you buried your song

why do you shun your mystery

to whom do you belong


come, says the sea

follow me, calls the breeze

let go, laugh the leaves

go on, wither! cry the petals


i have tied my being

with infinite measures

and lost my own infinity




sitting on a plastic chair outside the doctor’s chamber this afternoon, the force of unbound absolute unlimitable nature, its fearless creations, its inherent art suddenly hit me. thanks to my iphone, i could quickly write down the words without losing them… often a poem will come, but where is the pencil? i read the other day that “writing” comes from ancient words that meant to cut, to score, to carve… it is born of the process of writing. i wonder if words tapped out on a keyboard without actually drawing out the letters lose flesh and blood.


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