Silent Sands

[K]

There is a point, marked with a red snapped spade
(for we dug like demons) a point where frivolous din

ferments; rendering silent the yapping kids and laughing
dogs, a point where a seagull’s screech can deafen.

It’s beyond the lug-holed vestiges, the seaweed-strewn
remnants. It’s beyond the Sally Mae; the barnacled boat

come ship come stranded dream.

It’s in a place between life and a tragic death you’d read
about in a local rag:

“Father and son drowned whilst digging for Chinaâ€￾

It’s a point of reluctant return. From there, the factories
are cloud makers, the roof-tops; snowy mountain peaks.

It’s a place to revisit, with a sturdier spade.

[enigma]

Well, what can I say in return to what you have said? First things first, I am not writing contemporary poetry, I am writing what I feel. For this I do not feel there are any rules. By using rules we severely limit the scope of artistic expression of our work. Surely if you were to tell many of the greatest artists throughout time something like that they would have ignored it, but if they didnt I doubt we would have the quality of work we have today. Thank-you for your kind, if some what misguided view on poetry, I will bear it in mind in future.

speak soon.