I can write
more poems
than you
can read
so there
I believe
that means
I win
hah

I picked up my pencil
And sat down to write
I had nothing to say, for
I’m not very bright.

But that didn’t stop me
I needed a Pome
I needed to scribble
A life-changing tome.

I sweated a little.
I crossed out a lot.
I hoped it was brilliant.
I sensed it was not.

I read the New Yorker
Their poems are obscure
I may write only drivel
But my meaning is clear.

So now I am finished.
I’ll read it and you
Then go get a pencil-
Be a famed poet too.
           ljm

Where have all the
Good words gone?

When did we lose our
Imagination that burns
With passion?

When did language go from
Colorful to colorized?

The
Words
Are raging
Slams
Rips
Blasts

Causing poets
To disappear
Like flour tossed
Into the atmosphere

Hold strong
Hold steady,

Besides what are we fighting for?

The best written poetry
In the world
Still yet to be written