Poetry is the game we play when the bell rings.
Poetry opened its eyes before the dust did; took a breath before the garden grew.
Poetry wandered from shore to shore, then took a big sip of the sea.
Poetry is a popinjay singing, in or out of tune, having a great time either way (the wind blows).
Poetry whispered carnal karmic vibrations into the huff-and-puff chamber of your heart; the lungs, like a train, kept steady.
Poetry is a tight black dress, high heels, soft jazz, five lit candles, three bottles of wine, and a full weekend still to commence come morning.
Poetry sighed when you nibbled on its ear.
Poetry has worn a golden crown bejeweled with rare, elegant gems from the belly of the earth, and has walked around with a shaven head bowing at the feet of other beggars; even in silence, it listens.
Poetry believes that you are most likely wrong, but can probably figure out a means of interpretation that allows you enough wiggle room to squeak by with the illusion of being right once in a while.
Poetry is like a drunk at the bar; there’s always time for one more round (and round the lines go).
Poetry laughs at the thought, then perishes it.
Poetry took a spray can to the stop sign; cut the brakes; ignited nitro.
My poem “Charging through the Gates of Hallelujah” appeared recently at Piker Press.
17Numa 