Within a word,

a phrase,

a line,

a verse

all in synchrony

and rhythm or not at all,

lives, protean, the moving beast

of poetry,

of many species

and from many habitats,

but always about

hunting in the world for

truth, whatever that

might mean.

 

The beast can be petted

and treated like a lap-dog,

comfortable companion,

domesticated,

or become ferocious,

with an awe filled grunt,

waking those who slide

into somnambulance or complicity,

and need resurrecting from their

existential graves.

 

The beast is everywhere and

comes in many shapes and shades,

quietly calling to the sky or bellowing

with pain, sitting among us as friend

or watching from afar,

in the everyday of walking and running,

or standing apart as art that causes us

to stop, and listen to its sound.

 

We are the ones that hear

its call and we know when the

rattling sounds of death,

from commodification or neglect,

can be heard and when are need

to nurse it back to health and see it

stride alive in beauty once again,

coming from the distance of history

to live with us in time.

 

5/12/2025