Painting Poetry
Poetry is a light hidden
in the crevice of the sidewalk.
It is a dream described over breakfast.
It is the driving force behind logic.
The poet is the captain of outcasts,
seeking those abandoned at sea.
Poetry is the guide on the tour of life.
It is forgiving, unlike Virginia humidity.
It is the Queen surrounded
by her worker bees.
Poetry is the hole in the wall
left by a nail.
Poetry is raw, uncensored and bloody.
The poet is the newborn child
breathing in dust.
Poetry is the shout heard in a silent room.
It is the padded walls of an asylum.
The process is a horror flick,
but poetry is the sole survivor.
Poetry is the red dot
chased by dreamy cats.
The poet is a soldier trembling in a ditch.
Poetry is the nurse he falls in love with in the hospital.
Poetry is the air we breathe.
It is the hair tie someone loans
you that never returns.
Poetry is Reagan’s peace sign.
It is a universal symbol for hope.
It is the pain we felt after Orlando
because on that day we were all the Poet.
The poet is your nine-year-old sister
smiling even after her father went to jail
for beating on her mother.
Poetry is the afterthought.
It is the smile that stretches through tears.
It kisses your arms as your hands
are wrapped around its neck.
The orgasm on that first night.
Poetry is the tickle of grass on a dog’s belly.
Poetry is the reason we leave home.
