Laud Our Bard

Be drawn to places words go

when you’re idling along in low

gear, when sound deep in a stranger’s throat,

cadence of wings, unpredictable beat

of an echo, a shriek, a hum, a howl

creates pointless fandangles

listening poets wangle from
blue sky, a Grandma, a baseball.

You brick your own roads, scribble words

that flounder & fly, rhyme & count,

arabesque sashay & flounce

sideways backward forward

without a thought to ever repent

of vatic frenzy, the poet’s first defense.