On Poetry

I came to find poetry in words

But poetry found me instead

Poetry is not just found in books

Dusty , 3rd Grade Memories of verses forced down our throats

In rhyming metered lines

Ready to sound so fine

Interpreted philosophically in class

Where blue curtains in a room could mean

A) The poet was feeling sad

B) The poet seeks the sky

D) You just realized that I skipped point C because

Poetry was taught to be forgotten an exam later.

But poetry was not meant to be shackled down

Poetry is alive

Poetry is everywhere

Because I see poetry

In sunrises and sunsets

Between the silver of the clouds

The moss shades of the mountains

Or the reds pinks and purple blushes of the city lined sky.

I see poetry in rivers

In fishes who babble like

That one year old's incoherent laughter

And toothless smile.

Or the lakes that stay still

Like that calm school teacher

Ever so forgiving

Who smiled like she knew how to harness

Storms behind smiles.

And love between the folds of her saree pallu

As she swished between benches unfolding

Minds to mathematics

Like it was no big deal.

Poetry is found in the quickening heartbeats

Of 12 year olds who feel the heady rush of crushes

Flooding their heads like wild horses with untamed manes rushing through their veins

Or the 80 year old who falls in love again

Knowing that this time

This. Just. Might. Be.it.

For the lovers who have learned to love once again

Poetry is still here

Poetry is in the jars of pickles mom makes at home.

Poetry moves mountains

Breaks walls

Shatters barriers

Builds castles out of miles

That I walk like a wanderer with

Only the sky for a roof.

Poetry is the sound of rain

On tin sheet roofs

shouting louder and louder

So you can be heard.

Poetry is edges of painting

And choosing beautiful frames for art

Poetry is the dips between my rib cages

And fullness of my flesh.

Too full to be contained in lines

Poetry is learning to love myself

Poetry is love.

Poetry is not love.

Poetry is war

Poetry is an entire country pouring into the streets in protest

Poetry is that lonely girl standing in the middle of the street.

At midnight

Her chin lifted defiantly

Through the million times

Words have been branded on her raw skin.

Poetry is falling asleep to his heartbeat.

Poetry is waking up to it.

Poetry is the mundane

Poetry is the being nude

Of soul

Skin shed on the floor

Like music is not all that you dance to.

Poetry is pure rhythm and beat.

Ready to break like earthquakes

Ready to grow like the wakening forests

Ready to flow like the river.

I came here to find poetry.

I found myself instead.