Poetry

“Poetry can be dangerous, especially beautiful poetry, because it gives the illusion of having had the experience without actually going through it.” ― Jalaluddin Rumi

What is a poem made of

but words and sounds,

singing syllables, and rhymes

that wiggle and giggle and jiggle.

 

What is a poem made of

but tissue paper tears

and hearty deep chuckles

whispered in meters

and sighs.

Rhythms in feet

marching to the poem’s

b…b…beat.

 

What is a poem made of

but the day light of  truths

the midnight of  lies, and

grey shadows  that creep

over the walls of

love and hate.

 

What is a poem made of

but all these things

and yes

it is

true;

poems are made with

none of the above,

too.

Monday Can Wait

my weekend recoils;

my alarm screams, “riSe and ShiNe!”

my snooze whispers, “Shhhh.”