This may come as large surprise,
but I did once take a beginner’s poetry class
which I often confuse with my beginner parenting class.
In which we learned good verse
rich metaphoric content
perhaps even epic regenerative story,
climates of hue and cry.
Who would or could a poet be
or hope to at last become
and yet unresponsively disagree?
if what I write
cannot resonate within your calling day,
and hopefully tomorrow
and resiliently flow on back
through all your best, not worst,
Then we are not yet our resonant poetry
so it is not so richly mine,
nor true poetry at disfamiliar all
of any kind
or mean spirit
Strong poetry cannot flow anonymously
My poetic muse shrinks,
like wound from salt,
from capital competing
absent co-infested resonance
resiliently wounded assonance
of integrity’s best eco-aspirations.
with green me
grows not only rhythmic swell
and political ebb,
but also liberating healthy smell
and not so hoarding ego fell.
Poetry praises time we share
resplendent as spiritual underwear
inviting nature’s brilliant subharmonies
to speak again full-voiced revival choir
In which we learn good verse
rich analogic content,
perhaps even revolutionary story,
climates of secular hue
and sacred silent cry.