Pen the fluffy and the pleasant — bluebirds, gardens,
and old photographs. But from time to time
add some sizzle, offer a little anarchy.
The poet is at a desk wielding an irreverent
pen, scorching the page, writing not from
piety or conceit, but a simple recognition
of what is felt and worth saying.
She challenges what man esteems, sifts through
the residue of impulse, pushes brighter lights
through inky prisms, without governance
or another’s rules, challenges the pronouncements
of dogma, allegiance to popular orthodoxies. With
free rein she joins scattered notions, anneals
the sharp edges of her words, annexes sound to silence.
Unabashed she grants life to the inanimate,
stands naked the powerful, the haughty, the wicked,
the coward. She adds new colors to the spectrum,
offers ideas that confront beliefs — creates new
worlds, rushes all things toward collapse, expresses
passion, pulse, and power. Praises the hearts of heroes,
turns death to birth, birth to death, rides imagination to
the stars. Secure in self, always the questioner, she
speaks her Esperanto — the anarchist poet.
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A poet who writes on a wide variety of themes, individualistic, unafraid.