Reflections on Poetry

Reading poetry is like
watching fireworks
over a body of water.

The water can be a river,
a stream, or a an icy lake,
even a nude beach will do.

I must be near enough
to lean over and see
myself reflected.

Poetry sparks images in the mind:

a Grecian urn, white
chickens, a red wagon,
an uninvited raven
perching on a bust
the torso of a broken
sculpture,a morning minion
buckling in flight.

They are so bright
these firecrackers
I can’t stare
straight on;
they must come
reflected.

Each flash sheds
light on my likeness–
rippling now.
Looking into those
wavy eyes
listen for whispers
surfacing: You
are a liar. You
are a Hero. You
must change your life.

I see. I truly see.
If you find me
at the water’s edge,
we’ll find
sunken treasure
down deep
in the heart
of the cold waters.

Do I dare drink?
The water is dark,
will I swallow
the vivid sparks
whole? Will I ever
be the same? Or
will I get drunk on
this poetic river
and start sparking
fireworks from my
open mouth?

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