what a poem should be

    In my creative writing class this semester, I didn't really learn what a poem is. I mean, I did, but I also know that there is no finite definition (no matter what Ezra Pound would have you to believe). No, what I learned in creative writing is that I hate editing/making changes to poems I have already written. Poems I have done numerous drafts on never seem as good as those flashes on brilliance, one time and it's done poems.
    This poem is unedited. It would undoubtedly benefit from a few redrafts, but normally when I redraft the poems tend to lose their vibes. It has a few good lines in it, so maybe I will revisit some of them? (someday) (maybe)
   
   The prompt for the poem was  "Write a poem about the "ultimate" poem, or what a poem "should" do." 
   

 what a poem should do

is trip from your lips

words spinning on the page

popping, sizzling

a grease fire waiting to happen

or could it be a slow

lazy day, not a sunday morning

but a tuesday afternoon

when everyone knows

it should be productive

(but isn't)

what a poem should do

is matter and every word must

have meaning, must, must

must be necessary and tight

taught and vital

no slackers permitted

it should be clear

like crystal, or a supermodels skin.

or let it be murky, like old dishwater

bits of corn and the tips of knives

poking toward the surface

poems have the rhythm of sunday morning

front pew, or right up in the loft

all dressed in shiny violet robes

praising, and praising loud

so Jesus can hear

or rhythm less, no hint of rhyme

singing off key in the back row

following along, but always, always

always two beats behind

a poem should feel good

flowing through your fingertips

(you, yes, you

sitting pretty in you chair)

light and heavy

brushed off your chest, lips, eyes

some body part you might have

lifted out and thrown in the air

to matter to someone else now  

telling time

high school poem revisited

telling time

i’m shaking (another test
of nerves, faith, compatibility)
not for you or me but
perhaps for the both of us.



i’m shaking, a steady sneaker clad
mantra that moves the table
quick, jittery. you blink
“Stop you’re making me nervous.”
hands, like a clock’s thin fingers,
creep up from the six that is your lap
to the eleven of my knee.



please, let’s hold our breaths
cross our fingers and leap
away from these hard backed chairs.
cold floor, full of yellow flecked
half-formed memories, all cut short
before they could really begin.



(move on) to where we know
each other—like sometimes
you click your tongue,
only drink hot sprite,
and when you drive you tap
your index finger (long and knobby)
on the dash while traffic is congested
like your uncle Bernie’s heart.