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
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