by Margaret Colangelo | | Poetry
Our lives-
stretched out like a canvas.
Your days,
home, lend the color.
Fine brush strokes-
dirt on tiny hands,
smiles on sticky faces.
Recollections-
hang in my head like a gallery wall.
Faint music on repeat, a freshly cut Fraser Fir,
Memories-
the many mediums of my Love.
Run! Breakfast is deflating.
Hours sugaring pay off now!
All the chairs-
and my heart-
Full!
Time’s frame-
Fleeting.
Beauty abounds!
All is art.
"Poetry is as strong now as it was hundreds of years ago. Kendrick Lamar is doing the same things that John Donne did. One of these we love, the other we get traumatic experiences from High School Lit. We might hesitate to call Lamar’s work “poetry” because it brings to mind old dead white men and incomprehensible Middle English, but the mechanics of poetry are all there.
Rhyme? Yep. Meter? Uh huh. Stanzas? All there. Heck, I would make the argument that sophistication is not even a prerequisite to poetry. “Twinkle Twinkle”? Poetry. “F*ck the Police”? Poetry."
Kevin Chen