Too often the things we want turn out to be more complicated, more confusing and even overwhelming than what we imagined. Don’t you love the way poetry can let us express so many thoughts when this happens.

The ideas can appear convoluted, hidden in twisted turns of the language for it is the beauty of the genre to allow the writer the freedom to do what he or she wishes with the chosen words. Likewise it gives freedom to the reader to take away what they wish based on their knowledge and experience. Reader power is gained because the meaning becomes as much theirs as that of the creator.


A small vibration builds

slowly, piercingly pinching

and penetrating like a summer insect

that at dusk must come out

to show the night as an

imperfect medium


with bitingly bitter stinging sensations

to the sweetness of the sun filled days.

A constant running of close

together eruptions, erosions

and errors of nature which

display a natural process as an

imperfect medium


the truisms handed down since the

beginning of time and human evolution.

A final cutting edge of sans pity

statements screaming sinfully silent

and showing only at the

almost merciless end

that the imperfect medium is

in contrast to

what you imagined

a long yearned for

and deeply desired creation.


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