This is not a poem

 

You will say this is not a poem

You will say there are no similes or metaphors

Like a line of crows

    sitting on a telephone wire

    a murder to all that pass

    afraid to fly on your own

You will say this is not a poem

You will say that there is no form

    That my words

        travel on

the page like

a path that

has faded

from the poems

of the past

You will say this is not a poem

You will say that the words mean nothing

That I’ve not said a thing

That there is no reflection of truth

    or painting of nature

    that there is no reason to read this page

But I write anyway

    Because I know that the best way to survive

        a murder

            is through poetry

Sunday Morning

My 22 month old daughter gets restless in church

We walk out to the entryway

The hymns still audible

Though the father's voice is now muffled

The outer doors are glass

The sun of Sunday morning warm on our skin

She expresses joy as birds fly and land

On the church lawn

Carefree they search for food

As my daughter laughs and points

"Burds," she tells me

She looks at me to make sure I see

"Birds," I repeat back

She tries to follow one with her finger

as it takes flight

She turns to me again

Smiling she says, "burds"

But I hear the word joy