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
and voice
have structure
pattern
imprinting rhythm
rich metaphoric content
perhaps even epic regenerative story,
assonant bouquet,
climates of hue and cry.

Who would or could a poet be
or hope to at last become
and yet unresponsively disagree?

Not me.

Even so,
if what I write
cannot resonate within your calling day,
and hopefully tomorrow
and resiliently flow on back
through all your best, not worst,
imagined yesterdays,
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
natural
or unnatural.

Strong poetry cannot flow anonymously
autonomous.

My poetic muse shrinks,
like wound from salt,
from capital competing
absent co-infested resonance
resiliently wounded assonance
cooperative co-governance
restorative resilience
of integrity’s best eco-aspirations.

Poetry
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
nakedly co-resonant,
resplendent as spiritual underwear
inviting nature’s brilliant subharmonies
to speak again full-voiced revival choir
without degenerate
autonomous
naked despair

In which we learn good verse
and voice
have structure
pattern
imprinting rhythm,
rich analogic content,
perhaps even revolutionary story,
assonant bouquet,
climates of secular hue
and sacred silent cry.