What is Poetry?

The "P" is for "Poetry", of course.

Damned if I know…but here is one explanation…What’s yours?

Literati!

This post is just so I can familiarize myself with how to post stuff on this site again…it has been a while.  In the next few days, with the help of Stefanie and Tiffany and others you will meet, we will be launching our most significant contest, with a $500 prize.  In the meantime, here is a little poem his moiness, who never writes poetry, has composed for your entertainment:

What is Poetry?

 

 

Poetry is the third leg, along with alcohol and chocolate,

  Of seduction’s tripod.

 

It is an arrow in my quiver

to pierce

The reluctant heart of my intended lovers.

 

It is the smoke that obscures my ordinary features

By tearing the eyes

Of those who would otherwise

See me as bland and sexless.

 

It is the audible aphrodisiac

To tip the scales

In favor of passion

In those who feel no arousal

By my presence alone.

 

It muzzles those horrifying words

That are acid in every man’s ears:

“Can’t we just be friends?”

 

It is the surrogate

For animal magnetism.

 

It is the simultaneous exemplar

Of my emotional poverty and wealth,

Of my charity and greed.

 

It youthens me to women

Who conspire with me

To disregard our age gap.

 

It is the muscle flexed

By one who has to work

With the flimsy body

That Nature assigned me.

 

It is the rock jaw

For the chinless.

 

It is the grappling hook

To pull back lost attentions.

 

It is Love’s best lubricant;

It is KY Jelly.

 

And it doesn’t even have to rhyme.

(Now can I have your number?)

3 comments

  1. Sal Buttaci says:

    Poetry dons the invisible cloak that frustrates prose.
    In the soundless dark it gathers ideas from high elevations,
    dresses them in simple finery, and pumps them
    with emotions siphoned from the heart.

  2. Kyle Katz says:

    What is Poetry? By K.Katz

    Poetry is the pinpoint on a map
    A chalkboard erased
    Sieving thru a filter
    Or dumpster diving
    Through treasures
    Reconstructed
    Flavored fantasies
    That taste
    Like seasoned temperaments
    Clinging
    To French salmon
    …The ruby kind
    Swimming Upstream
    Waiting to mate
    With an Adonis
    For sheer pleasure.
    Poetry,
    Pouts
    Prunes
    Spitting out your insides
    Before you’ve discovered
    You’re just an ordinary woman with no bangs!

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