Panis Caelestis

Perhaps Poetry is but Self-consumed flattery, guile... I suppose it might be elevated to a leavened trial—Goods we kinda-sorta prepare and then timidly dare-to-share. (Is this a casually veiled tendency towards lack of commitment? Why not roll it out in a plain ol’ prosaic paragraph?) Then again, perhaps it's an ultimate act of humility—A declaration that we never know: The riddle of our lives ever-presenting anew Its questions, undermining our foolish “answers.”

…Poetry's the scent of the Portrait; the taste of the StillLife; the sound of the Sculpture; the look of the Melody; the feel of the Moving Picture; the Aha that only peeling layers of abstraction brings. Poetry's the “I think-I-know-what-you-mean and can’t respond adequately!” Above all this, Poetry is an open Hallelujah, a taking in, a giving back, a signing thanks to the Heavens …Our devoted saying of Grace and breaking of bread at the table of Life.