The poetry is in the wind,
In its gentle melody at sea,
Its romantic fugues caressing limbs
When leaves hum with tender mercies,
Even when agitated, as wind is wont to be,
The classic ballet plays in assailed trees.
The poetry is in the wind.
The poetry is in the rain,
Falling quietly, framed by a rainbow
Or bombarding in riotous assault
Gouging the thirsty, dependent soil,
Water, logging dormant summer memories,
Of our barefoot laughter in slogging mud.
The poetry is in the rain.
The poetry is in the stars,
With their flirtatious winking at the moon
And lovers dancing in shadows
Throwing kisses at those sky diamonds
I imagine pulling down to drape your skin.
Stars that play hide and seek with night clouds.
The poetry is in the stars.
The poetry is in the spring,
In the perfumed fusillade of things in bloom
And in succumbing to the smell of warm dirt
Sharing epiphany with worms and snails
When serenity of seeds calms restive earth
And birds sing their sweet sonata.
The poetry is in the spring.
The poetry is in the music.
Spanish guitars on the hacienda,
Notes entwined with lemon blossoms,
Violins drifting on dark Venice waters
And cellos in ancient, elegant foyers.
Angel music trumpets the wine of night.
The poetry is in the music.
So, if I have a chalice of wind,
If I have a thimble of rain,
If I capture stars in a glow jar,
If I have a bouquet of spring,
If my heart hums to music.
If I have all that,
Do I not then have a poem?
IN DEFENSE OF INCOMPREHENSION
Now that Boyd has finally left the profession
He can make a long suppressed confession:
Journalism, as they have labeled the trade,
Is dulled down to match the lowest grade.
Who, what, when, where and even how
Is less interesting than a mud encrusted sow.
So now that he has thrown asunder the shackles,
He can ramble incoherently like a witch that cackles
And he can emulate in his shambling style
His number one muse who for him so beguiles
And he can usher forth a hurricane of words
That stretch uninterrupted like chili bean turds
And tell journalism to sexually molest itself
As he violates the rules of writing that are left
And spews forth, in his glory of incomprehension,
The freedom of shucking off newspaper tension
As he hits randomly all those keyboard keys
To babble like a brook caressing cypress knees
Fingers at warp speed, who cares of the content
Because freedom is all about new energy spent
Just like his hero Jack Kerouac did it o so grand
Writing On The Road in one Benny-fuled stand.
Just two paragraphs and it sweeps from sea to sea
No structure yet a saga, singing sweet, rambling poetry.
So his iron bonds, gaily cast aside like corroded rust
His words now ramble around in wind-swirled dust.
Boyd and Kerouac, though they ain’t got that much to say,
They will write and write about nothing, forever and a day.
What do you hear,
O specialist of this ultrasound?
Do you detect the lingering melodies
Of my heart, once rich in love of spring,
Once, back when my dreams did flutter there,
Resonating in the songs of hopeful longing?
Does your machine echo the lost verses
Of that poetry my enchanted heart recited,
Enraptured by the mystery of her eyes,
When all my senses, inflamed by her smile,
Endured solely for the tender whisper of her kiss?
Did you chart the earnestness of vows
When proclamations of love tumbled
Upon the star-twinkle of our sweetness and magic,
Our affirmations, solemn as the arias of classic opera,
Knowing we were in a kingdom of love—unchartered,
Our searching eyes, crystals of purest illumination,
Our lips the vessels of consummation, never known?
Richard H Boyd was a prolific New Orleans area journalist and poet. Over his decades long career he meticulously crafted thousands of articles, essays, narratives, and, most abundantly, poems. With hopes of inspiring other artists, this volume includes,those of his poems,that will give readers insight into this talented and accomplished writer’s creative process.
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