Poetry is Dead

Pages and pages of pure-life

spelled out, fully described,

not sure what this instinct

is, this obsession to get it all

down,

       unfolding

       itself throughout days

       and years, pen scratch

       and humming guitar

       chords.

leaving what there is

for any historian or

well-loved or thoroughly hated

family member

to leaf

through and ponder

over once

I’m gone, for

               I’ve heard it said

               that poetry is dead.

How can beauty be in the eye

of the beholder when there are

no beholders?  If something is

beautiful it is beautiful by

benefit of its existence, therefore

poetry itself still has a pulse

          and it might be the beholders who

          are dead - I’ll keep

          my pens warm regardless.

- - - - - - - - - -

(March 10th, 2012)