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Where is poetry found

I wonder? Not in dark crevices

between rocks where frothy tempers

of the ocean boil in and out

in stern-voiced argumentation


And not at the center of the world,

in heaving tectonic plates, anger of

earthquakes – and even deeper to

unknown and complex confusion

of molten nouns and fractured adjectives


High over the seas and grottos

a gull dances in the wind. Pausing,

it soars, wings motionless, carried on

invisible currents. Then suddenly it dives

for a tiny fish in a breaker’s spume. Alighting,

it struts a pattern in the sand then rises,

swoops and circles, catching your eye,

your breath, your heart


A group of children splashing in the shallows

look at it and point. A bronze-skinned woman

smearing herself with coconut oil stops to

watch its flight. An elderly couple searching

for shells, hats tightly clamped, gesture to

one another – Oh look. Hand-in-hand they

watch the seagull’s circling.


Poetry is as visible as a seabird’s wing.

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© Johnmichael Simon



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