A poem’s the sound we hear when words go out to play
As they romp and rhyme, laugh and cry, or go astray
Some play nice, while others scratch and swear in fights
Some get down and dirty, some climb to heady heights
A poem’s the show we see when words are on display
As they flit and flirt bright colours, or shades of grey
Some paint true, while others splash and scatter with shapes
Some tell epic stories, some clown around with japes
A poem’s the churn we feel when words are in the fray
As they lilt and love, muse and mourn, or quietly pray
Some are thieves, while others shine and selflessly give
Some spark the fire of hope, some teach us how to live
— Wayne Visser