Sunday, August 21, 2011

Highway Rider

Bike.
Buzzed on beer.
Buttons black leather jacket.

Speed.
Stargazing.
Shedding all inhibitions.

Slow.
Succumbing
Steadily to alcohol.

Swerve!
Split-second.
Suddenly thrown into air.

Blood.
Broken bones.
Barely alive at nineteen.



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Poetry

when language like bubbling streams flow




when words are laid down to fit like lovers' hands




when you feel the essence of the poet from within




when swirling thoughts are caught in the net of rhythm



when images reel as you read




when pen and paper create a symphony




then, it is poetry