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

 

This poem is about: 
My community
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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