I am a bird.
Feathers light as can be,
because I am so carefree.
Soaring through the air,
This feeling not so rare.
Diving fast,
having a blast.
Pulling out of the dive,
feeling so alive.
My friend is a bird.
Feathers heavy with weight,
so full of hate.
Struggling to fly,
as I pass them by.
Diving fast,
just to ignore the past.
Pulling out of the dive,
barely alive.
Yet what can I do as a friend,
but help them around the bend?
Give them a shove,
while showing them love.
I want to freely fly,
before I die.
However I went them with me,
both of us riding the wind, free.
12 Jan. 09
1 comment:
I wonder if poetry whose "fun" and "impressiveness," whose therapy, come from posing from the author's end and figuring out the puzzle of the words, the secret of the words, the enigma of the phrase, on the reader's end is too much on the side of the mental game taking over the art? Why not explicitness and clarity in the prose tradition, but with intense imagery, with insight into and expression of passion, with distillation; all in the pursuit of insight, explanation, observation, juxtapositioning for interest, but most of all for empathy? Would that not be the poetry that reaches out, touches and reveals, displays and reminds, opens the mind and the heart in the most universial way?
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