A poem is energy transferred from where the poet got it...by way of the poem itself to, all the way over to, the reader.
Charles Olson (1910 - 1970), poet
I have taken the liberty of sharing something I wrote a few years ago, which for lack of any real knowledge of poetry, I will call a poem. This is what happens when the day job keeps you busy.
My Computer has Been Drinking (Not Me)
I’ve been drinking, but I’m not thirsty
I’m thinking, but it’s not making sense
I’m making money, but others are profiting
The public can’t read, but they can spell
The editor doesn’t write, but he can sing
It is such a hollow feeling that I wonder why I’m here
My heart beats, but the blood doesn’t flow
I am looking for the meaning and there is no purpose
I know a lot of people, but I have no friends
It’s such a sad sorry state, but I’m happy
Inspired by Tom Waits
My favorite real poem by one of my favorite poets John Keats.
O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell
O SOLITUDE! if I must with thee dwell,
Let it not be among the jumbled heap
Of murky buildings; climb with me the steep,—
Nature’s observatory—whence the dell,
Its flowery slopes, its river’s crystal swell,
May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep
’Mongst boughs pavillion’d, where the deer’s swift leap
Startles the wild bee from the fox-glove bell.
But though I’ll gladly trace these scenes with thee,
Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind,
Whose words are images of thoughts refin’d,
Is my soul’s pleasure; and it sure must be
Almost the highest bliss of human-kind,
When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.