Monday, April 16, 2012

Poetry Workshops

Is there a death in words, or do words find death
The way a divining rod finds water — intuitively
Sensing through white space.

Tonight I’m picking through the bones, looking
For something that disappeared too long ago —
                Edsel on evening road.

The children’s crusade, ideas against all odds,
Woodstock and that rant opposing a reality we
                Knew would never leave.

There’s little left of poetry, the person who suddenly
Awakens rediscovered, reinvented, alive, willing
                To take a radical chance.

In the morning, flowers open, catch sunlight,
Prepare for midnight when all the voices
                Which ever tried to speak are silenced.

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