There Is, Finally

Let’s discuss the art of poetry.

Every sharp-fingered, discursive hero,

Shakespeare’s fears of chaos, 

Dover Beach and Daytona

Washed away by song, 

By the lyrics of Mumford & Sons.

The fragile alternatives I give myself,

I who would offer darkness and this

Progressive unexpected conclusion—

This known weakness and known song.

Oh, to be born without falls

Come tumbling.  No wind and slip-

Shod clouds, no whispered breath and thin-

Lipped voice comes down high walls.

Rock, 

Oh, rock me, Sadie, like a wagon wheel!

Hey, Sadie, rock me any way you feel.

He-e-e-y, Sadie, rock me.

Come rock me, Sadie, like the wind and the rain.

Rock me like that south-bound train.

He-e-e-y, Sadie, rock me.

Style and poetic language, 

Residual and delicate—

Aside from songs of rocks and crows,

Aside of seven blue guitars.

All stars fall, all stark

Sparks plunge on virgin ground,

A new-found and impartial shore.

There is, finally, a third

Something or other.