On Poets
Poets in coffee shops--
Poets in wild glades--
Or in the New Yorker--
the ones who got paid.
Poets in back yards--
versing from porch swings,
penning their romance
with homelier things.
Poets in Japan praise the
blossoming cherry tree.
Poets in churches raise
ardent verse from bent knee.
Poets in Iraq are
protesting bombs.
Poets in grade schools are
loving their moms.
Poets with rhythm skip
Double Dutch ropes.
Poets are everywhere
scribbling their hopes.
Communication
What if I wrote you a love poem,
but it was so densely worded,
you thought you'd been given a millstone
instead?
Would you feel loved?
Or would you feel ground up
and spat out
like grist for the mill
of my intellectual
snobbery?
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