Poetry is just words that echo

They echo-echo before and after being read-heard

In the fare-thee-well-how-art-thou old-fashioned sense

And the hey-man-what’s-up-‘friend’-me of today

And the emoticon-laden-SMS-tweet-driven of tomorrow

Within each departure of poem from poet

The echo-echo of loss (the poet’s) and gain (the poem’s)

The fragility of passion’s umbilical cord stretches then snaps

As muse and muse-inspired part then join ways again

Shaping another formless poem-omen at the potter’s lathe

We throw the earth at the sun-sun then at last

While we scatter handfuls of stars in deep-deep frustration

Poetry is just words on words

In the same way perhaps that a stone is a stone

Thrown into a pool of still water, a reader’s mind,

To create ripples of concentrated concentric consciousness

For the grieving giver and which is given and what is received

In the echo-echoing chambers of a poem’s heart

For all poems are living breathing things

So though this poet throws a never-ending goodbye pot

On the wheel he spins with his tapping foot and pen

It is not without an echo-echo that it leaves his hands at last

For the destination of your eyes and ears and heart and mind

Poetry is just echoing words-words

You’ll see my boomerang bye-bye turn-return in the end