For it is an elitist
And difficult Art.
Some love poetry,
Because it does create images,
Sometimes dreams,
That can only be seen
And understood,
By a sensitive
Soul, all heart.
Some, might say then
It is irrational, inexistent,
And abstract
Yes,
That may be part,
But it also,
May make us dream
When we really,
Want to cry and scream,
And may, I say may
Even keep some,
From falling apart.
All the rest,Is playing with fire!
They never heal,Cupid’s broken arrow,A deadly feel,Love’s sorrow,Yesterday, Today,Tomorrow….
To paint a Scene that has the flair,To make you feel that you are There.
Poems are my life’s delight,Words that lingerPleasant sightOnly hope,I get them right,It’s thru love that poets liveIt’s all love that poems give.
And yet, both are disturbing,And can produce a fall,But Love usually is sincere,While politics is Not,Love sometimes is a rose,While politics and politicians,Are just plain Rot.
The size of a flower,With beauty that towers,Wings tiny that sing.It’s made up of colors,Was born to be freeIn perpetual motion,A joy, just to see.
