My Poetry Is Pedestrian
My poetry walks barefoot along the winding unpaved road
where beautiful people peddle smiles
that tell a story older than language.
Where sundry patches of fabric
are stitched together
to clothe an entire tribe.
Where doorways lined
with woven tapestries
beckon my poetry.
It lingers on
a warp and weft,
then wanders through the market,
smelling the pungency of mongers' fish
and sweetness of clay-warmed bread.
Throughout this braid of wares
their beaded twine
and painted stone.
If it could,
my poetry would trade cadence for incense;
the scent intoxicates its rhyme,
rendering it artisan.
Currency jingles through this bazaar
this thread as versed as time.
© 2014 All rights reserved
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Comments about this poem (My Poetry Is Pedestrian by Michelle Claus )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
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