From life's
Messy mixture,
Poetry rises
To the top
Or settles to the bottom:
Highest aspirations,
Lowest tribulations,
Expressed into mere words,
And captured on a page.
_________nh

No poet
Is ever
Isolated.
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Poet

The heart pours forth words,
When itself begs release.
'Tis good to express
Its needs;
But too incredible for words,
That clamouring needs
Concede to be contained
By quiet words.
Ah! There is probably a word
For that, too.
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I panic,
Fearing I have said too much.
My silent thoughts
Reverberate
And seem to
SHOUT it out!
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BEING Is A Noun and Verb

Prototype?
Not I!
I catalyze - I prophesy -
I speak - I write -
I laugh - I cry.
I try
To light a little fire;
Excite, suggest, delight, inquire,
Inspire a flame
With sparks of life
To salve the pain,
To solve the strife...
To be a BEING, being!
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Poets are people
Who translate
Staggering experience
Into staggered lines of words,
In hopes of
Capturing, there,
The twist of the heart,
The surge of the mind,
The excruciating ache
Of unfilled needs.
Others, also needing -
Just endure twists and aches -
And surges, too, -
Silently, within.
Perhaps sometimes they may read
The staggered lines,
And find release
Through their eyes.
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Poetry
Precedes its happenings,
Or else, it follows.
Living
Needs no written poetry, to be, -
Unless the words are all there is.
I think there's more.
I think that walks
Along the country-side with love
Exist.
I think the seagulls
And the roses know.
I think, perhaps,
That, sometimes,
Even I have known.
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I know not how
To edit my soul,
Nor why I should.
So, I hope you like me
Unbridged!
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Nostalgia
with more of my own poetry.

©1970-2006 - Created & copyrighted by Nellieanna H. Hay