Apostrophe or Apostase

Have you ever pulled taffy? What happens when it's 'fixed', stops being ductile, malleable, pliable? It stops and becomes stone. It ceases life and becomes a wall, an impediment to life. Life crawls over it, around it...and goes on. Where is the poet, who is so stricture'd that he cannot piss in a pot because he must urinate in it, instead?

Poet's will climb all over you, period, apostrophe, or apocalypse. If we are down to 'splitting hairs', where in the court is the judge of that? Are you the judge of the limbs and twigs of grammar? I think not. Nor am I, but a higher power. Are you that? The 'word' is poetry. It is organic, as becomes both, life and death, containing rhythm, heart beat, soul, sweat, all that ever was or is, or will...be. It cares not, your letters of cold law; but competence, in hearts of those conjuring it. An X will do and cleverness of speaking tongue.

The grandest poets, ever 'bode on earth, among their groves of Oak, used not a pen nor period, but long mnemonic memory. With that and bardic song, they could enchant all things...all times and signatures design, from line to line.

Nor were they abashed to leap upon a thing, and whisper it to sleep, that they might pass...without a challenge from the tower. They could, if must, a moment on, adorn with wings heroic, fly beyond your reach, so long as truth were served and fain, but...forgive. What would any know of that?

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: john howe.com