What is

Life, poetry, motion, work, church, hail, rain, snow, wind, pain, pleasure, cultured, insane, lame, walk, run, stunned, shunned, accepted, rejected, keep, fun, learn, lose, groove, smooth, jew, black, white, asain, indifference, love, union, ply, shy, cry, try, laugh, smile, rock, lock, sock, fight, sight, write, kite, fight, sight, write….. fight…. Sight…. Write…. Poetry….

Poetry…. What is poetry?

“Language packed with meaning to its upmost possible degree”?

in a sea of words, picking the ones with the most meaning?

Is poetry a prayer on paper? An open safe of unlocked emotions?

Is poetry created or discovered? Made or delivered?

Is it floating, right above the daily tasks which distract? Or is it in the way we respond and react?

Poetry with out feeling is like music without instruments.

So is poetry a feeling? Or are feelings the gate keepers that let us in?

Why is it, that when poetry is spoken, people seem to stop in silence?

Why is it, that for something that we cant really explain, seem to connect lines to something quiet and sustained, something we all feel, no matter where your at in the game. Short, tall, small, big, fat, skinny, smart, dumb.

It seems to distill the stagnant waters, in everyone.

People, often after hearing a good poem, like to say “that was deep”

But what does that phrase even mean?

Does it mean, that we all have something in us, maybe small, discrete and fragile? Like a present we don't remember we had until we find it again. Like a lost dog, or long lost friend.

Makes us want to stop walking, and stand right over our feet, when we hear shear noises, created words, that begin to stir, often our feelings will concur.

But maybe we’re not sure. Because its so quiet, we often do not speak, of this language called poetry.

A whisper to loud could break its back,

We could spend a whole lifetime trying to get back that which we lack.

Poetry is a chance taker, a mind maker, a line braker,

Makes us grow, expand, and draw our very own lines in the sand.

Leave a mark on moon, that will never be takin away.

Footprints treaded on mountains, which have never been seen.

Except by those travelers who’s voices break into scene,

Who open up the paintings and climb in without the fear of the unknown, knowing they will win.

Poetry, poetry is you, poetry is me, it's the old lady living alone down the street, its cops and the criminals, it's the optimists and the cynicals, it's the ones stuck in line, it's the ones running free, its dogs it's the cats, it's the birds in the trees, it's the low valleys, and the high peaks, its everywhere, its in everything

Poetry… what is poetry?