I know very little about poetry.  Except for the smattering of T. S. Elliot and Edgar Allan Poe in high school, the limericks I read as a kid on the elementary school restroom stalls, and the occasional forays into bad haiku, I really don't know much about it.

There is a young lady at our church, a poet.  In fact, she is such a good poet, she can actually call herself a poet and nobody seems to think that is odd in any way.

I asked her to explain poetry to me once, and her response was a little mind blowing.  She patiently explained that the intent of the arts is to express ideas and emotions that cannot be expressed using words.  The thing about poetry is that you have to use words to express that which cannot be expressed using words.  So the poet employs forms and devices like rhythm, alliteration, metaphor, simile, and other stylistic elements to achieve their art.

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I’ve been trying to write about money or the economy. My first title was “Why Cheap Gas is Bad for America.” The second, “The Truth about the Stimulus.” But I just can’t get going today, can’t engage the latest news about Congress, our new President, or some old white guy who did not pay his taxes.

Maybe it was my time in southern Africa. Carefree, I had everything I needed tucked securely into my sturdy North Face pack, toting less than twenty pounds onto buses, planes, and boats. A hot, bright sun and the languid blue blue blue waters of the Indian Ocean.

 Maybe it’s the season. Day after day of hard, white ground and dull, grey sky, with a sharp wind that freezes bare ears. We tend to walk with our collective heads down, secure in warm hats that leave strange patterns on our foreheads.

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