Ars Poetica

For Archibald MacLeish

With motives of not meaning
But being, poetry
Dwells

…in the cracks & crevices of the mind

Where the sound of every syllable
Has its own unmistakable
Mystique
Wondering & pondering
(Without permission or
Even decision) where upon
Instinct is the only
Compass

…in the secret garden of Sol

Where impossible dreams put on
No airs, necessitating an ear
To the ground
While walking tightropes, for
We are verses made conscience of our
Own voices reverberating
By word of mouth…it is there, word jazz

Inhales
Body & soul
Conversing with the cosmos.

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MDSHall