Mar01

Roses are Red …

Art happens here.

I dabble in poetry, though I’m no Gwendolyn Brooks, William Carlos Williams or Edgar Allan Poe (my favorites, and yes, I know, an odd mixture). And as a bad, unestablished poet, I admire those who’ve made it using the art form in today’s world. Because, let’s face it, poetry is a dying art. It’s not a big money-maker. You can’t hang it on your walls. There aren’t glorious museums showing it off. It’s just words. And, today, we don’t even have time for those. (More than 140 characters? Ugh, too much effort.) Poetry — real, beautiful, pregnant word flow — hardly stands a chance. Sure, it’s managed to take on new forms: song lyrics, most rampantly, but, it has become like that weird kid with the white-person dreads in grandpa’s cardigan and grandma’s scarf: relegated to coffee houses for the overly caffeinated to sit through. From time to time, however, poetry manages to escape these java-fueled locales, popping its little head from its coffee mug to show face. Like here, in Miami.

Check out Neil de la Flor’s story about poetry happening here and now. And maybe you, like myself, will indulge your inner rhymer and let it revel in both spoken and written word.

*This post brought to you by guilt triggered by only posting otherwise about pink and girly things today.