Poetry Is... Poem by Diana van den Berg

mountain-fresh
biting gasps;

whisper-softs,
painting butterfly wings,
secretly,
in caterpillar cocoons;

cacophonous crescendos
of precison-thundercracks,
louder than colours that clash;

peritonitic agony
streaming palettes
into rainbow-wild
hairpin bends
and asymmetrical swirls
and jerky angles
screaming through
sky,
canvas,
heart;

midnight velvet and silky tresses;
scar-barked tree towers, strong, reassuring;
bravery in miniscule petal-colour, promising;
Chopin soft-wafting on the breeze, teasing;
four-legged eyes defining love and loyalty;

scarf-dance multi-blued twirling,
swathing forgotten dreams
into long-ago forevers;

light- and shadow-dappling yarns;
laughter-leaping notions tried on for size;
salty blood-spurting knives;
and cloud-comfort cushions;
lion-cub learning;
and a long way home;

skylarks soaring higher than faith;
and oceans plummeting deeper than truth;

beauty that bursts the lungs;
and sorrow that tears off toe-nails;

Poetry is
sanity;
insanity;
a necessary luxury,
a luxurious necessity;
all that is good;
and all that is bad;
all things known;
and all things not
since Life began;
and it lasts beyond
Forever Amen.

(11 February 2011)