o matter what anyone may say, it is our belief that Poetry is not dead. We are a family of poets, and we contend that the world will always need more verse — whether on page or stage, under a beret, recited in music or whatever form. Poetry survives, and don’t you forget it!

Rafael, our resident poetmaster, expresses verse in volumes. Noél, when he applies himself to something other than “techno-babble”, is an eloquent thinker in his own right. Myself, I tend to stir poetic language and license into my prose.

Herewith, however, for the sake of poetry for the sake of poetry alone, I shall ascribe to myself the oft-neglected purpose of crafting new stanzas that observe life on this ball of water and dust as only poetry can. Anyway, I kind of need more lyric lines to begin each chapter of my nonfiction series LA PIÑATA, since expanding the project to seven books.

(Correction, make that nine.)

In honor of my first “poetic reflections” column, I present two offerings . . . an old poem and a new . . . about poetry! Read them in good health.



Is the soul of literature

The heart of being human

The nature of us all


Poetry is

A magnifying glass, a microscope

That peers at the tiniest particle

Of earthy mundane life

And elevates it to grandeur


Poetry, to me

Is a wake-up call

To look around

And perceive things differently



A window

Through which to observe

The minute

And think great thoughts


Poetry is

Fragments of life

Photographic, surreal

The stained broken glass

Of imagination


Poetry was

Verses on parchment

The voice of song

Rhyme and reason

With folded wings


But now it is free

An exuberant bird

Released to soar

And startle the mind.


What is it that cannot be defined in mere terms

But by words that sing like larks at heart

The song of every feather

And ring clear as bells that toll in crisp weather

Yet can freeze a moment

Like a winter’s day

And on little cat feet

Snatch my breath away?


What is it about a poem

That cannot be just written

But engineered and composed

Until we are smitten

Sketched and gushed and spilled

Like drops of frenzied inspiration

Etched and rushed and willed

To the point of poignant desperation?


What is it that rhymes like a tune

Strikes a chord and beats in my breast

Yet does not grow tired or frail with age

For it is always clear and fresh?

What is it, indeed, but a poem

The nimble word dance of the tongue

That speaks to mind and soul of images

Succinct, surreal, common and uncommon

For everyone.

~ Published ~
May 1, 2009

Spread The Word

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