by Cay Randall-May, the Healer Who Creates
At this moment are you a hummingbird, wings fluttering hundreds of times per minute, or a sea slug oozing through benthic gloom. Maybe your wings are glued to flypaper or your inner earthworm is savoring a mother lode of vintage horse manure. Are you the single dandelion surviving Spring’s herbicidal showers? Bloom, bloom, bloom through poetry.
Words luscious as tiny sausages, each wrapped in a curl of crisp bacon, invite tasting. Chew their syllables thoroughly, as inner ear bones dance with iambic, pentambic, schmambic oscillations. Blow sound bubbles of pink heart-gum that stick to virtual cave walls. “I chew, therefore I live,” they say.
Sweat poems ooze from volcanic pores swallowing lesser perspectives, burying them, preserving them under ash like Pompeii.
You are fresher, cleaner, and purer because you erupted in poetry play.
April 20, 2010 at 4:42 pm |
Nice! Very uplifting and inspiring
May 13, 2010 at 9:17 am |
Thanks for visiting my blog, Terry. I look forward to reading your new book and invite you to share more about it with my blog readers.