The art before the art.

The practise through which
the poet
uncovers all the sizes and shapes
of poetry…

as my brilliant grand daughters
architectural instinct
espresses itself in beautiful,
breath taking sand castles
dotting the tide line of our
Carolina coast.

See her fortresses,
some taller than her
ten year old body,
others mere ten inches high,
but ten feet long
along the shore…
sparking with red and turquoise seaglass
and all her seashells
she’s gathered from the surf,
scattered on her castles,
dappled diamonds,
glinting sunshine,
wave splashing lovers gasp surprise
at the flickering.

Take note then,
poets,
striving at the Art,
of iambic octameter,
onomatopoeia,
AB-AB-AB –
C
rhyme scheme,
forest scenes as
metaphor of rebirth,
or
simile for death,
Sonnets: Petrachan,
Haiku,
Rap,
Villanelle,
all the limitless possibilities,
the tools and toys
we poets may use
to conceive
and play
and build
our ink castles on the page.

BUT BE YE WARNED:

Brenna’s Camelots
wash away with a wave,
lost forever.

But,
a poem in the soul
waits,
breathless to be written
while her creator,
initiated into the mysteries,
first esplores her,
knows her as Eve knew her Adam,
so she can be written,
complete,
a song,

sung,

forever.