Poetry In Motion

The birds flying through the sky. The oceans waving hello. The hustle and bustle of a morning café. The subtle movements of plants as they grow. The beads on the hair of a black child clicking and clicking as they walk. Waiting in line for your turn at the DMV. The blinding sun forcing you to squint your eyes and scrunch your nose. The cry of a baby. The cry of an adult. It’s all poetry. Poetry in motion. That’s what I like to call life. Life at its purest and most complex is a poem. The poetry of life is all around you; you don't even need to acknowledge it. It simply is. By its quality of beauty and range of opportunity and intensity of feeling life writes itself. You do not have to do anything or be anything for life to continue. It simply does. And as we observe this life or this poetry, a poem is being made about how and what we are observing. You are a part of the literature, whether you want to be or not. Whether you know it or not. In motion, life is always responding. So it is always receiving. So it is open and free and does not move without their presence of some thing or someone else. Even as I stand still, life is responding to me and giving me unlimited opportunity. That is poetry. Poetry is in response to what has been experienced. Well, the experience of life is never ending. The never-ending poem. Even death has made its way to the invisible lines on the imaginary page.