Most people think of poetry as words on paper,
but actually it is much more:

Poetry is a lightening bolt striking a forest's tallest cedar.
It's also a spark setting fire to all that’s old & worn.

Poetry is the sweet scream ah lovers at climax,
as well as the muffled, stale silence of a funeral.

It’s the smell of stale piss above grandpa's outhouse
and yes – the pungent scent ah
Aunt Norma's fresh-baked apple pie.

Poetry is the verdant, virgin green of April’s bud tips,
as well as the rich, dark mulch where centipedes lie.

It's the dandruff flakes
on a cranky old history professor's tweed jacket,
and a young child imagining its gooey debris to be some miniature galaxy.

Poetry is a smoggy sunset of a dying planet,
as well as a dawn on a world where life is just beginning.

Most of all,
it is what happens when thoughts gain music –
we should never explain it
or try to box or refrain it –
simply let it flow with its own beat.
Shu: Why listen to assholes describe what poetry is or isn’t?
Jack: Well, an asshole needs a mouth – and a mouth needs an ear. And wherever people are listening, danger is also near.
Shu: Hmm. Is that supposed to be a “poetic” reply?