Poetry doesn’t explain, but reveals. It wings the ordinary and roots the extraordinary.

Where prose reports, Poetry unveils. Where prose marches, Poetry dances.

Where prose makes sense, Poetry makes more than sense.

Where prose proclaims the mystical to be ineffable, Poetry gives it a voice, daring to express the supposedly inexpressible, while providing its audience with hearing aids and front-row seats.

Poetry is aesthetically translated epiphany in verbal form. All we need to do is permit ourselves to see firsthand the dancing particles and pulsing fluidity in its crystallized presentations. The price of admission? A sense of wonder.

Poetry is more invitation than presentation.

Don’t touch Poetry with gloves; seize it, hold it close, smell and taste it, go skin-to-skin with it, squeeze into its silences, navigate and ride its waves, get intimate with its Mystery, making room for some messiness and turbulence in your relationship with it. Get into it until it is no longer an it.

If Life could be said to be the Poetry of Being, and Art the Poetry of Creativity, and Music the Poetry of Sound, and Intimacy the Poetry of Relationship, and Beauty the Poetry of Revelation, then how can we live without Poetry?

When Truth arrived
Did you crucify it
In a field of facts?
When you condemned the executioner
Did you see in your hands
The bloody axe?

This silken glide
this succulent ride
this deepening dying
this joy beyond trying
this melting mutuality
this everwild commonality
this rupturing rapture
this, this which no telling can capture
this pleasure beyond pleasure
this depth none can measure
this the heartland of bliss
this the Holy Deep’s pure kiss
this, this the art
that cannot be framed
this, this the beauty
that cannot be named
this, this the love
that cannot be contained