The Poem's Lullaby
A poem,
Read with silver tongues
Can be baked into warm, whimsical swirls
Or gardened to bloom in each ear
Like the fresh buds outside Grandmother’s house.
The ink,
Delicately placed
Or abstractly puked on a piece of paper,
Can touch anyone’s soul, heart, or mind.
For the poem is the spontaneous musician.
With arms to lift its instruments high,
Callused hands to grip, tightly,
Fingers to pluck the very melody
That can tickle one pink
That can make one tear
That can giggle one’s voicebox.
Orchestrating a new wave,
Vibrating music notes
Through one’s ears
Through one’s bones
Through one’s heart.
Making them rethink/relive/reborn anew
Sigh, poetry, sigh
With your muscle memory fingers,
Play on
Bake swirls
Bloom buds
Puke pieces
Into that harmonious bliss