Just because the words are face
down floating in a murky tadpole
slum doesn't mean you should
recue them. There are old lures
twinkling in the swishy debths.
The uninvolved tails of passing
brim say more than ducks in
militaristic formation, If you turn
the poem over now, maybe a
bug will wiggle out half said.
It will scare whoever's with you
in the boat. Also keep in mind
that the poem could smell. I
mean have you ever left a verb
at the bottom of an almost
finished coffee cup....for days?
Let it float, nothing knows the
surface of water for long. Look!
My oar made a ripple and the
little piece of paper is trying to
dance to the tune. How sad.

dw/06

I loved this poem for it's own sake.  Beyond that, you nearly furnished an elusive answer to a question that never stops plaguing me.  That being, exactly where is the outer limits of poetry?  At what point does it cease to be poetry, and morph into something else?

I don't know about you, but for me, life is full of elusive questions. Don't think of them as plaguing you, think of them as tickling you. Laugh.

Thanks for reading, Ron.  Have a good day.

Hi Dessiree,

Really glad this bobbed up again - it ticked me greatly! 

Roger

Delightful, Desiree. Highlights for me -

There are old lures
twinkling in the swishy debths.

                            If you turn
the poem over now, maybe a
bug will wiggle out half said.

I find the very end, How sad., too generic or something.
Typos?:
debths=depths ?
formation, = formation. ?
Tom