No One Knows

Poetry is
the spattering
sound of a cow
pissing on a
beneath the
lilting melodies
of songbirds
and buzzing bees
in an idyllic
pasture of green
and yet,
complex beyond
devoid of a standard,
absent a criterion
that decides,
“this is good,”
so we float it
out on a cloud,
let it drift,
and see who
looks up and
“I see it!”


It is the curse of
artists and poets
to be driven
beyond reason
by some
unseen force, to be
helplessly coerced
into attempting to contain
the very essence of
nature and the gods themselves
in tightly laced straitjackets
of lines and rhymes, to stop time
and twist the formless into
crude word forms.
To think that
my poor language
could contain
the majesty
of what my eyes see,
that they could convey
the power of my dreams,
that the absurdity of
could grasp the
heart of Spring!
It is madness
but I must try.
The relentless
fire inside
me rises
and must be
lest it
consume me.
No, there is
no hope
for poets –
we are not
our own