We’ve come to the point

  on writing a poem,

where we question

  the product we’ve wrought.

 

We still do no know

  if it is, or is not;

but we’ll come to that point

  in a minute.

 

Presuming it is, 

  we know what it isn’t:

 

It’s not some prose, by a nose,

  we have got;

nor Longfellow’s shot,

  markedly prescient.

 

I suppose in the end

  if it’s put down by pen

and it falls or it lands

  upon paper –

 

What then?

 

A circumlocutionary caper?

 

Words!  Words!

  Turgid fat words!

 

Still, some small,

  are also absurd.

 

But back to the point,

  we almost forgot.

The Words, like a train,

  off-tracked us in thought.

 

To be or be not,

  is not what we’ve got,

but a Poem, which is also

  a  Palindrome:

 

 

        Pure is poetry if it’s sure

                 but

        Sure it’s if Poetry is pure

 

 

 

 

 

 

©2013, Marvin Loyd Welborn