sheltered during the electrical storm
by my grandmother's freckled arm
*
ignoring the elaborate directions
my brother the technopath
*
zooming-in on the shoe in the street
*
the stalled industry of clover crowns
*
sea voyage atop the Crimson King maple
*
the green undertow of my dysfunctional family
*
you're a white cloud when nobody waits for your return
*
she told the store detective the sweater wasn't even her style
*
please continue, as long as you're not counting on being understood
*
she knows all the birthdays of the dead
*
the opulent life of the former bedwetter's
full underwear drawer
I am reminded of the rich wonder, beauty and opulence found in a poet’s daily life, in all of the mundane and trivial things, in the things that matter absolutely, the fresh terrain of boundaries drawn in the sand and boundaries crossed to find a kind of acceptance and sanctuary from loneliness, emptiness and sadness. Poetry starts and ends with a community, always. Poetry is the witness or the poet the witness?
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I like all of these!
Gives the reader a vivid feel for the poet’s upbringing. Cool!
I am reminded of the rich wonder, beauty and opulence found in a poet’s daily life, in all of the mundane and trivial things, in the things that matter absolutely, the fresh terrain of boundaries drawn in the sand and boundaries crossed to find a kind of acceptance and sanctuary from loneliness, emptiness and sadness. Poetry starts and ends with a community, always. Poetry is the witness or the poet the witness?