The hustle and bustle of the world,

My world granted,

Would continue even with my mind enchanted.

Remembering the beginning,

Underrepresenting what there was to offer.

Least the books they have around

Exercise the mind and

Surely as the things are read will lift what the world tried to ground.

The topic of poetry was taught,

Swirled with feather-like topics.

Love poems littered with appreciation

For Mother’s and Father’s Day,

Would be interrupted to construct a few about nature.

Construction paper

Bent,

Folded.

Marked with images to represent

what they might say in words soon.

A surfeit of colors details the border of pictures and sentences

Tears and toothy grins would be shared

As people exchange what they’ve made

To say that they cared.

Dark was considered the genre of poems enriching my mind

Only to discover uncharted territory of poetry years later to be assigned

Edgar Allen Poe was a favorite.

The favorite.

A slew of what seemed to ramble

Not always rhyming contrary to previous lessons.

Breaking down “The Raven” in class

Rules of English drilled into the mind seem to conflict.

Alas Edgar Allen Poe was a notable figure for poetry

And English at that.

How could one whose writing breaks rules

End up on top?

The foil “character” doing its job

at being the catalyst of a changing perspective

Nothing is completely defined by the boxes we try to put them in

One more category to house many exceptions

Though why force something to seem to be in control?

A poetry slam one night snuck up,

A ninja it was.

Down I sat listening to what this small world can offer.

A few local artists shared what they had.

The guest speaker shared poems from his newly published book.

Astonished.

Not by the book nor even the words.

The stories told were ones many would not hear,

And ones hidden in history.

The delivery is what made it beyond priceless.

Each poem was a shape poem.

The way he read each was different.

Skipping lines, going down to up,

Reading the left stanza to the right when the perspectives would be blurred.

He said the order of reading does not always matter

And it’s more fun when you don’t stick to the boring conventions laid forth.

A splurge of creativity can create a new

Perspective that alters something or someone.

Poets are artists with a character-based hue

Laboring away to achieve something that should never be met with shun

Yielding what is to be.

To be renowned,

To be successful,

One did not have to live according to

a set of defined rules.

Poetry has a few.

But it is free.

Free to sculpt as one sees fit.

As an outlet for those with no other.

As a way to express feelings or memories.

A pass time for any reason,

That taught me

There is

No wrong way

To be, live, see, feel, especially write.