“where’s the place for poetry?” you asked

ah, well, in between the nooks and crannies of creation

the glue that holds petals to flowers

and lovers to each other

the spit that was spat on the shoe of tyranny

that is poetry


“where’s the place for decency?” you asked

inside the heads of the dead that died for freedom

in the hole beneath the corpse of idealism

beyond the gallows of a false democracy

the flag that flew when someone said hypocrisy

and underneath a soldier’s brainwashed constancy

there you will find decency


“where’s the place for artistry”?

Beyond man’s boundless universe

Underneath your eyelids, of course

In every cup of coffee that rejects normalcy

It is merely the conquest of infinity

Riding the shoulders of a militant reverie

There is artistry.


Where is the place for poetry?

In the handshake of possibility

Where dreams escape fragility

As we gods sit in our gallery…

Painting, weaving, destiny

Deciding that one and one makes three

Creating the world that others will someday see…

There is poetry.



Lane Eddington

September 20, 2005