[Written for the currently running poetry challenge linked to below. Consider joining in, if you feel so moved, whether you consider yourself a poet or not].

A poem
some words
that we chose
different from workaday
everyday normal-speak
we also call prose.

Picked from the ether
from our brains or our hearts,
or hither or thither,
somewhere else, god knows where. . .
either or neither,
or when sounding in ERRRSTER not OYSTER
as was dance and sung
by one Ginger Rogers
and one Fred Astaire.

Words spilled on a page,
or carefully posed,
to waken the brain,
call up the ears and the eyes,
the nerve ends in skin
or even the tongue or the nose,
to help you sense something or other
as the blood and the currents and the lymph
and the life through you flows.

A poem could go just like that,
or some complete other way,
two ill-at-odds ones could parry and spar
and go tit for tat,
or ring out through the world
incarnadine red or deep ocean green,
or be crumpled in some dusty corner
or locked in a dark box unseen.

It could speak plain as day
or leave laymen and sages alike
all scratching their heads to divine
what on earth it can mean.

So, fear not,
grab one graphite pencil,
or sweep with pen pretty cursives
or leaky ink blots,
or wield wiggling digits
to pound out some pixils
to form words
on an eerie glow screen,

for though you may think
only others write poems,
until you give it a go,
whether that’s true
quite simply
remains to be seen.

This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s