Some poems
Have no form or rhyme
And trail their similes in great long trains of vision like a flock of murmurating starlings drifting off to the horizon.
Punctuated.
Only occasionally.
For effect.
Some poems skip
From line to line
In careful verse
That keeps in time,
They dance their life
Through sculpted rhyme
And charm the ear
With gifts sublime.
Some verse cares less for rhyme than for the stress,
Though this world stage is stressed enough, I say.
A pent up meter makes a tragic read
Though may become as comic as Iamb
Some poems are haiku
Elegant and refined, they
Point out simple truths.
Yet, Nay! Let us Ning! Or Nang! Or Nong!
May felines elope with strigiformes before long!
Pisum green may their poem boat be
Ne’er scratched by the claws of the Jabberwocky.
Then there are
Modern poems, which speak unflinchingly
Of love and sex and alcohol.
Self consciously
They break the rules and aim to shock.
Revelling in colloquialisms
Like a sweaty teenager
Bathes in the 3am strobe lighting
Of their first night out.
They nonchalantly drop in words like 'Fuck'.
To sound cool at the bar.
But my favourite poem
Is the kind that has no words at all
Though it can be read in the world
Eighty six thousand times a day,
Just breathed in the fleeting moment
Like this next one.