Might the calisthenic of mental fitness, acuity, by grace, be poetry? Poetry as magic, poetry as change...poetry as prayer? Might all things, be here, be there...because of that first word, engaged...poetry? Might we change all things, as fluid into fluid...swirling stars, new heavens, earths, beings? Might we think, as children do, on vaster scales...imaginations? Might we earn our right to heavens trust, by valuing the place, by picking up the pieces from our scrabbled floor, by honoring the god within? Capable of anything...we are, but care. Care, if you would enter in. The words are there. Remember them, again.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Point zero, Paris, France
No comments:
Post a Comment