Someone named it: April. And then National Poetry Month. NaPoMo our term of endearment.
Poetry—the art of choosing the exact and right words. Oh it strikes fear in the hearts of those who expect this means there is a right and wrong answer. And sadly these days, poetry illicits disrespect for hiding rather than revealing meaning, making the reader feel stupid. But it does not have to be so.
I propose progress as playtime. Begin with a small form: the haiku. Three lines of syllables five then seven then five. Think images. Think stark: nouns and verbs. Give one nod to nature and another to our humanity. Post your poem in the comments below.
One a day. Just like the vitamin. Who knows what good will come of it.
Frost. Clay. Rose. Each named
hair, star, grain of sand, sparrow
sought after, chosen.
Nothing in all the world means chosen, like being named.
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Moon Poem 1
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An ancient timepiece
The moon ebbing and flowing.
Ceremonial.
Prevail.
Oh, the power we wield when we know a name. We can build up or destroy through our use of the little tongue muscle.