But you are right, if you do it right, it is very effective. I read your post first, and I thought the last paragraph was good, but it still seemed better when it was broken up into bite sized thoughts…

A: That post is really a long poem, isn’t it? You write beautifully..

I agree on poetry allowing more freedom. I also find poetry easier to write, partly because it is so short, but also because I can ramble on with my disjointed thoughts and it would still seem perfectly normal.

aniche: I am glad to see you de-lurking on my blog. But as for your comment, all I can say is – must be projection

…Of yet unlimited Smiles
Across the faces I get to witness
Everyday…
Smiles of a confession
For a mistaken nudge on the side,
By the fellow commuter;
Smiles back in acknowledgment
Of a Smile;
Smiles in a dying anticipation of a signal
From the beautiful out-of-the-place face
In the crowd;
Smiles carried miles across -
On the cellphone while hanging in the train;
Smiles for just the thought,
Of finishing out the messed up journey;
Smiles out of a blush on a maiden’s face -
Of feeling gorgeous to have dressed up…
Primly in her favorite outfit;
Smiles for…just having walked out
A bright sunny day…

It’s such an irony isn’t it, that Poetry allows so much of freedom…no standards, no bounds…yet its such a cony little thing…and yardstick to measure its quality.

I often fear penning them, for they might turn pale the next day I read the same lines. Songwriting would be better I feel

Snow Day

The blue glow
has faded to grey.
The sky is very cloudy
this morning, a far cry
from the clear contrailed colors
of yesterday morning.
Everything is covered
with about 2 inches of snow,
white except for the tracery
of fallen branches below the pin oak
and stark silhouettes of the trees all around.
My tiny but reliable “February fair maid”
snowdrops still lift their head out
defiantly through the snow,
daring the nearby daffodils and hyacinths
to take away from their moment of glory,
deceived as those have been
by the recent warm spells
into poking out from their winter’s rest.

rads: The last 3 lines seem especially poetic. You didn’t intend the original post as a poem, did you

rada: Lovely. Beautiful imagery – “old men in chequered caps reading newspapers.” I remember reading this post and being struck by that line – “every table can be the beginning of a story.” So true.

“men in business attire
unwinding with a glass of wine before going home

young couples kissing or holding hands
oblivious to the world around them

matrons with dogs in tow
old men in chequered caps reading the newspaper or staring emptily into space

For a gifted writer, I think to myself
every table can be the beginning

of a story.”

http://rada-steppingsideways.blogspot.com/2008/04/paris-diary-3.html

But you are clearly asking for trouble by saying “a poem is nothing but broken prose”