Jack Kerouac once said, “an art dies when it describes itself instead of life.” It’s a paradox of sorts, like the chicken and the egg, but it makes me wonder whether a writer writes a poem or the lines create the poet? Does ink convey an idea or do readers place meaning on the words? If a typewriter reveals a story but no one is there to read it, do the words still exist? Life is full of mysteries: never stop discovering. a haiku about haiku is like a chicken and egg…food for thought © 2017 Joe Blend. All rights reserved.
KEYS, LADEN WITH FINGERPRINTS—worn but not torn—recount ideas, perspectives, and interpretations from the brains of intellectuals who have sadly passed on or happily moved on. The aroma of age speaks of 1942 or possibly 1939…either way, a bygone era lost but not forgotten. It was an age where each letter of a thought leaped to the page to contribute its segment of the reflection. Listen to the audible monuments—a “shook-shook,” “ding,” or “klock-klock”—and be reminded that once upon a time, communication was built to last. © 2017 Joe Blend. All rights reserved.
Blackout poem and writing © 2017 Joe Blend. All rights reserved.