217 Poetic Points (ekphrastic excerpts)

Poetry stretched out its hand in goodwill, shook away all the strain of bad temper.

Poetry pointed five fingers toward heaven; all paths lead to inner peace … eventually.

Poetry kept a copy of the x-rays, watched the bones adjust with time, witnessed the screws pop loose, said sayonara to machines, decided to leave the flesh intact.

Poetry pulsed with white light against a blacked-out backdrop; visions of Tao float through the stream of time.

Poetry understands the inevitability of ash to ash and dust to dust, but still enjoys a soft caress of skin while occupying the mortal coil.

Poetry is electromagnetic in nature, hums with radioactive frequencies, and beeps steadily in the corner as saline drips, drips, drips.

Poetry mends broken fences, tosses sticks when there are no stones, and utters words with the power to both heal and hurt (depending upon the intention with which they’re summoned).

Poetry is a ghost bleeding through the veil, a mirage, an illusion, a wisp of smoke, a whisper of what could have been, a welcoming of what is.

Poetry is a fist full of sand; don’t squeeze too tight, else it all slips away.