Poems Everywhere
You may not know it,
but you're a walking potential poem.
All you need to do is double park
beside a poet, and they'll turn a page
into wordy rage, ready to run
you over, except you'll never read it
because you still hate Shakespeare
from high school, remember waiting for Yeats
to make better sense to them, while the worms
in Biology class recited an elegy,
using only silence and formaldehyde,
yet even that went unnoticed
as you practised a refrain for adulthood
by complaining
about how the school no longer provided
latex gloves for dissections.
Another Poem Ruined By a Parachute
Like footprints leading to a cliff,
one day there'll be no more
dangerous poems, but only a blue sky
expecting to be part of another metaphor,
as if our homemade god has nothing better to do
than watch how far a wrong step
can fall, and the remaining poets will gladly write
something, but not before removing their shoes,
worried of tracking mud
all over their linoleum souls.
Troublemakers With Pens
There are times a blank page is a puddle,
waiting to be jumped in,
fresh snow, looking for an angel,
even if lost mittens left behind,
along with Sunday school finger painted Jesus,
or an empty jar in need of light
from fireflies kept hostage,
but there are other moments,
when it's most like a barren wall
in a corner, where one stands
after doing something
they should have known better.