The irony of social medium,
That thing which makes it such a tedium,
Is that the effort required to post
Subtracts from the moment which matters most:
The present, that which is ever fleeting;
Time we should wish never to be leaving.
Stay a moment longer in it will you?
Post later, when the moment bids adieu.

the village elder

Elderly man strolling alongside the street
Wearing your sweater in this oppressive heat

Where are you from; what do you think; while walking
Back and forth, to and fro, forever stalking

Where do you go when you’re not walking here
Do you live far from where I see you, or near

Peering down at the sidewalk, you plod along
No headphones, no music, to distract with song

Your purpose so mysteriously thoughtful
When our paths cross, I’m struck my you: beautiful.


Poem, that wasn’t a poem
Inquired why it wasn’t so.

“Your author knows not what he does,

Therefore you cannot be,” they rebuked.

“If ignorance precludes art,
How did the first poet pen a poem?” Poem replied.

“Clearly, the first poet knew their craft,

Else they wouldn’t be the first,” they declared.

“But whose rules were they following?”

Poem persisted.

“The poetic rules,

Obviously,” they quipped.

“If the first poet was the first poet,

Was it not a subsequent poet who declared the first poet a poet?” Poem persisted.

“You’re an annoying little prose,

Aren’t you?” they scoffed.

“Please don’t call me that;

I am a poem,” Poem objected.

“You have no meter; you have no rhyme; your line breaks are superfluous,

And your author is naive,” they lectured.

“That’s because I am unique;

If the first poet wrote me what would I be?” Poem posed.

A poem,” they concluded.