Poetry Is Not A Contest

poetry is no contest I cried unto the living skies;
but the flickering of images lit by electrical storms;
with no warning,

the telegram from God
hidden in snows, the windswept;
the crystal breath of angels,

who knows,

at the windowpanes
where small children barely stand
after letting go

of
the word between here and there.
the table where the roses were;

the room where the table was-
in Shining, long ago;
the shaken pillars driven further

underground,

away, away from sound,
nearer to glaciers.
poetry is not a contest

a competition of herds.
of who deserves or not.
where, in any of your shadows

could you ever find

its resemblance
clutching at the grass
you used to know

while hurricanes pass
over you
or the unnamed stars

mary angela douglas 17 november 2015