He links tomatuh and potatuh/beer and steer like nobody's business.
Then there's Van the Man. God do I love him.
He wants to rock your gypsy soul, into the mystic.
I'm not going to lie to you. That line in that song makes me want to wear red pumps and dance on tables. The imagery, moving me to action. Poetry at its best.
And then there's Larry Smith. A beautiful piece on contemplation from Yoga International Magazine
Walking a Field into Evening
For learned books, I read grasses.
For reputation, a bird calls my name.
I cross a stone bridge with the pace of dusk.
At the meadow gate, six cows meditate.
For decades I ran with my mind up hill and down;
now idleness lets me see what is near.
An arrow of wild geese crosses the sky,
my body still, my feet firm, on the ground.
We age like trees now, watch our seedlings
take wind or grow around us.
I'm going to mark my books lightly
with a pencil. When someone wants
to take my picture, I'll walk towards them
and embrace. No more arguments
just heart sense, or talk about nothing.
Take walks in the woods at dawn and dusk,
breathe in the damp musty air,
learn to listen before I die
Really. Darn. Good. As for me, one of my Yoga students told me I should be a poet or a writer because she loved the imagery in class. I love the Yoga and the words used to describe it. The funny thing, in Yoga there are no words. Our bodies are the poetry - our own personal genre.
What's your genre?