for years of harnessing the horses of
word
scrubbing the back of phrases
what shall my hands become?
shall these hands be a vase for flowers
wilting in your room?
shall these hands be barks of trees
where your moss and lichens thrive wild?
shall these hands be finally exhausted
and grope again the shaken beams
of my own confusions?
or soon shall i speak in tongues
in the tower of babel
shall my thoughts become tribes
scattered in different directions?
shall i soon speak like you on the eloquence
of the pedestals?
i look forward to this art
as a savior of my crucifixion
i look forward to Frankensteins finally
converted as angels
as fairies in the lands of my fantasies
or shall i be roaming on the fields
of realities
stark and open
lighted with the sun and
refreshed with the true winds
from the waving seas?
These are poetic experiments. Man's quest for the poetic element never ceases. He is always caught in the eye of awe. He does not make the rules now. The rules change depending on the emotion that time and space feed him. He must see everything with his wide eyes gaping. The beginning of poetry too, like philosophy is wonder. Look and see. Do not stop wondering You are the poet. And everything is poetry. Wonder. Wander.
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