Pipes & Modest Bowls

Pipes & Modest Bowls Some believe that a poem flows like water through a long pipe. In this overwhelming rhythm of this flow may the universal also be spied, in overflow, as currents surge the endless miles. Large and commodious the vowels become liquid at the end. The consonants on the other hand are washed away—like stones they collect at the final period –the last drain. Leaving gold flakes in memory for those that still have breath. Then in swirling empty. Others believe that poems drips on pages humble lines release the dreaming birds. In simple stanzas collect the clumsy temples flowing past: splash the words, & fly the spaces. Gentle droplets please swim in the skin thin ribs to echo in a poet’s modest bowl.