Poetry Play

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.

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