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Phyllis Jean Green

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Define Do
by Phyllis Jean Green → (All Poetry by Phyllis Jean Green)
   Rated "PG" by the Author.
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Best answer I can come up with.
Prob'ly amuse my muse--?

Always grateful, always in awe, 'Pea'

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




Poem Artwork


"What does poetry do?"  What good
would it be to own a magic wand?
What good is a sunset? Moonglow,
a star, a raindrop, a waterfall? What
makes our breath catch at the sight
of the Milky Way frothing a navy
blue sky? Why ooh and ah over
something as common as an infant
discovering its tiny, dimpled hands?

Let's play a little game. Let’s imagine
a world without air. In a far corner,
poetry sits on its hands and stares
at the naked walls of a five-by-seven
cell, as it waits to be executed. . .
though already dead. Sentencing
began with “different” and “failed
to act sensibly.” Paragraph or so
down, the judge has scrawled above
a shaky carat, “no goal that I can tell.”
No last-minute caller is going to plea
to halt the poisoning. Anyway, it is
too late. What good would it do?

The world in our game is running out
of water, as well. Chemicals masquerade
as food are administered by IV, where
veins can be found. All those unruly
plants, animals, rocks, shells, and
what-all, are fast being replaced
by imitations that do not disturb
by going outside the lines. Nature told
she can continue to mother those
remaining, given she agrees to keep
them tranquilized.  No more running
amuk, understand?  All proposed
changes are to be subjected to scrutiny
before she moves one finger. If all
goes according to plan, change will
soon be illegal. This “Life” thing under
control. Faux will be the new animate,
humans and our messy creative claptrap
phased out, once and for all.  Good
news, humanoids are now in the majority.
What a relief to be rid of those pesky
paintings and statues and friezes. Music,
dance, and other silly extras only serve
to clutter.  Launching a new Ship of Fools
for storytellers and poets.  Poets the worst. . .
Man, this game sucks. Look, we’ve got
lots of paper that still has good sides.
Why don’t I take the medium point, you
the fine? ‘Say Go, both start writing.

What about this for a working title:

         “Poetry Causes To-do”

 

                 (c)  Phyllis Jean Green

                          April, 2011

 

 


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 Reviews of "Define Do"
Reviewed by Jon Willey
Reviewed on April 20, 2011
Utility is not judged by mere metrics alone Pea, is it? Certainly value is indeed an individual assessment that does not require a clearly defined utility. In that domain is where the arts are to be found. Poetry prominently among the lot. So poetry, "Causes to-do". I bid you love and peace my dear friend. Jon Michael

Reviewed by D. Vegas (Reader)
Reviewed on April 19, 2011
Phyllis, Poetry sings without a voice, can interrupt
any and all things, it is beauty, ideas, colors of
the rainbow, emotions and such...poetry is all these.
Beautifully written!
Always,
Deborah

Reviewed by William Bonilla
Reviewed on April 18, 2011
enjoyed this excellent piece Phyllis
thank you for sharing
Love & Peace be with you

William

Reviewed by Sheila Roy
Reviewed on April 18, 2011
Love this...the way if flows, the way the second verse speaks for all poets - here and hereafter:) Here's to the future. I've got plenty of paper. Hugs,
Sheila

Reviewed by Patrick Granfors
Reviewed on April 18, 2011
As I much here munching on my radioactive sushi I am compelled to agree with your assessment hoping against hope that the glow worms provide me with a little candle light of inspiration to accomplish today's to-do list. Patrick

Reviewed on April 16, 2011
(((Pea))),

What does poetry do? It waits, patiently, for just. The right soul to come along and put it to page -- beautiful, beautiful write. Well done.

(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.

PLEASE let me know you're okay -- heard a lot of bad storms NC way. :(

Reviewed by Felix Perry
Reviewed on April 16, 2011
love it and think of all the possibilities of our existance but a world without words...wow...that is scary.
fee

Reviewed by Ronald Hull
Reviewed on April 15, 2011
For some reason I found this a bit pessimistic. On the other hand, humorous. Poetry may cause to do, but I know that eating a lot causes do do. But then, do do doesn't do anything except be, fairly good fertilizer.

Reviewed by TONY NERONE
Reviewed on April 15, 2011
I agree with Susan, poetry is written from your soul. So is my review.
Love and Peace
Tony

Reviewed on April 15, 2011
A brilliant pen, poetry is a reflection of the soul, not a form.

Reviewed on April 14, 2011
DEAR PEA ...

WELL PUT! "WE DON'T NEED NO STINKIN' CULTURE!"

OR ... DO WE? TOM.

Reviewed by Jms Bell
Reviewed on April 14, 2011
AH...THE PLACES, THINGS AND OCCURRENCES ONE CAN BE INSPIRED TO 'DO'...IF ONE ALLOWS THE IMAGINATION RUN FREE...DOING JUST WHAT IT WANTS TO DO. THANK GOD FOR POETS. THANKS FOR SHARING. LOVE, BLESSINGS AND FAITH...JOYCE * HIS INSPIRATIONS

Reviewed on April 14, 2011
excellent questions! I have no answers.....I'll take a stab at the medium point. ~ Morgan

Reviewed by John Flanagan
Reviewed on April 14, 2011
You see uniquely, Pea, and have the ability
to deliver in such a stimulating way;
in one sense all art is useless but then
would we want it to be practical and 'useful'?
This is intellectual and poetic shooting
from the hip with a silencer on.
Yes!

John

Reviewed by Gene Williamson
Reviewed on April 14, 2011
Had a bad night, huh? Well, knowing you as I do, through
the usual beauty of your words, methinks you can--and will--
write your way out of this world without air, etc. -gene.

Reviewed by Karen Vanderlaan
Reviewed on April 14, 2011
we are living in scary times, very well expressed!

Reviewed by Walt Hardester
Reviewed on April 14, 2011
Right!!
Who needs those silly trappings of culture anyway?
This makes me think of a future as "Borgs"
Uh, sorry I'm still a Trekie.

~W~

Reviewed by Marcia Duning (Reader)
Reviewed on April 14, 2011
Spooky, Pod

Reviewed by George Carroll
Reviewed on April 14, 2011
Hope it don't come to this but when you see what's happening to our Country it gives you pause to wonder.


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