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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.
© Johnmichael Simon
2015
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