about the poetry (unpacked)

The things that are
fleeting, passing,
require and inspire
the poetry –
if only a line or two –
a word, a note, a tune;

formless and shapeless,
though still finite,
words are needed/
heeded to mark the memory,
to fix the experience
in time.

The infinite –
is poetry itself –
like meter and rhythm –
cycles that appear
and recede like ripples
of waves that touch

the shores of our dreams
from opposing sides,
across expanses
of timeless thought and
boundless space.

The form of our finite lives
is also the poetry –
poetry that endures –
beyond the borders
that surround us –
the horizons that beckon us.

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Author: Raymond Maxwell

https://raymmaxx.wordpress.com/ Librarian and archivist-in-training, retired foreign service officer and former naval officer.

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