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.