April 4 by The Running Son
poetry..
crawls out from
our perfect storm
evolving and cumulus,
electrifying and noumenal,
unsettling and tumorous,
in expression, unfettered;
words plucked from a whirlwind.
order out of chaos, and trust me:
given a millennium, i bet
a monkey wouldn’t do much better.
by Jim Aldrich (:
©2013 JimAldrich
☀ ☁
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.
RunningSon aka Jim Aldrich, Joshua Tree CA 2013 | This site is dedicated with the deepest gratitude to Dr. Cláudio Naranjo, whose writings gave me life.
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You’ve got it in one. Coud’nlt have put it better.
This metaphor makes a lot of sense to me. Poetry is like the smell of rain on a damp afternoon, or red-sky in the morning (shepherd’s warning). You know it’s coming, and that in a moment, undefined, it will so envelope you—like when the storm finally breaks, and the rain washes the smell of “city” into the drains.
Yes, great poem 😀
thank you ink j. red sky morning/shepherds warning mmmm 🙂
[ Smiles ] An impressive poem!
thank you ren!