Poetry is Dead

I read on the internet

that poetry is dead —

it is hard to bounce back from that!

My passion does not feel dead,

my fingers still move

my mind is relentless, still —

words and voices, metaphors, ideas upon ideas, attempts upon attempts,

but yet, here they say, they said, are saying, we are dead, I am dead -

it is dead.

If so, this just might be poet heaven

we flutter our wings and our eyelashes we rise up and up and up

and offer you little tablets, tiny things,

scrawled out, written with feathers, written in clouds

that lift, and lift, and lift you all up here

dead and gone

with us poets in poetry heaven.