Poems are prose;
prose without a hose.
Like the faucet in the back that
In a puddle on the stone-
-it flows in the darkest of the night
through the day; into light.
Haiku- lyrical- freeform singing forth
precious moments we recite that point out life's true North.
Take the drop of water - seven syllables or more,
write your life in passing prose above your homey door.
Sky falling, apple catching, homework moaning all-
catch in a bucket
that life offers as time falls.
Call it poetry, call it prose- no one 'll ev'r agree-
Catching moments in your life before they rise and flee.
Drip a-drop a-drip a-drop-
I count the raindrops as
spiders climb the chute and
drip a-drip a-drip a-drip-
into the wetlawn that
shines with green grass and
it's a moment.
No reason, no rhyme-
call a verse a second time:
Run Alice, run down the rabbit hole and see
the cards stretched across the universes three
where shadow hearts and gemini play
and hatters tend wares in another way.
Find a bucket, catch a drip; knowing that you'll never trip
as it speeds by on the tarmac of the universe
because poetry catches the