In Poetry's Fist

Poetry cannot be weighed
measured
judged,certified
rewarded, awarded
can only be read
and pushed to jump off the ledge and fly
like a cat with a ball of twine
pushing it back and forth
back and forth
waiting for it to unwind
fully
Those that do you play with more
while the ones that have knots in it
make you wave your tail at it angrily
Poetry is that ball of twine
Different colours every time
I read and read hungrily
I read to slake my thirst with it
hunger for life
thirst for life
lust for life
it never dies
it lives
it grows
Poems, poets and poetry
Something more must be in store
around the corner
more balls of twine
great balls of fire
and balls of thunder
Poetry rains and falls on my face
like 
an orgy
unslaked
wet, ache
Poetry cannot be judged but some
remain
and some fall away
subjective and relative
like quantum
but absolute in having me in its grip and sway
Am I the dreamer
or the dream,
am I the keeper 
or is it the keep?
Am I the snake or the charmer of venom?
Do I draw out its blood and spit to save its life?
Am I the man rising and thrusting into each poem?
I can never have enough of it
Poetry. So I make everyone write it.
Especially the soft birds of the days
They know its secrets, they know its place
They know how it plays out
its sports and games
They know its grace
They know its hands make gestures lovely
Mudras of eternity
They know its hips are languorous and it buttocks sway savvily
They know the pots it carries on its heads
And no drop of water is spilt on the way 
They are its music makers
Dreamers of dreams
They are its songs
They are the ones each day I frame
to make them be found guilty so they can never escape
Poetry is the answer to the questions
Makes me a gaoler
and me, the forever jailed.