I
I began writing poetry, seriously, at college
About worldly affairs, my scant knowledge
Prevented the privilege of love. I acknowledge
Ladies like Lilly, Saras, and Nerissa: Ed College
(No man, mind you; short for Education College)
A Fulbright scholarship led to miscarriage
Of my love-affairs. Didn't commit sacrilege
Pondered punctuation in life. My US college
Reduced my many commas, and exclamation
And somehow this helped my poetrification
II
A serious Love Poem, scuttled with notebook
By my younger brother, on Ashrina Ram Zook
I turned, sadly, in pages titled ASHES OF LOVE
I recall infatuation - classic - as in a textbook
But I never talked with Ash, I, a teen Mook
Thus I can't preach puppy love I forsook
Cos I never got beyond a furtive look
Stopped spelling 'priviledge' so, like 'knowledge'
For now I study at another COLLEDGE!
What am I?
A book
A look
A hook
A rook
A jook
A nook
A wook
A zook
A vook
A mook
A mook?
Mook is a man mixed.
Mixed men
Man mixed with men is...
A mixed man
A mook
A mook is what I am.
What then is this mook?
A baby's basket
bounced two-times two.
Circled chimed towers ring
downtown beep-bop to the rhythm.
Enjoy the music; birds
fly over docks. It's the busy bouncing
great city street lights that
hit the road, shimmer in the dark.
I enjoy watching you dance to the music,
June. The jungle summer parties
kaput from hard rain last summer and were
laden with children screaming
"Mommy, I can't find you."
Nothing stops your dancing. You're
oblivious unless the music stops. I
pace the streets of the city's heart and
quadruple the center of the streets core, two-times-ten
ready to run, run when I know it's your
sassy sway from side to side 'till you
turn in his arms, a fall light as yogurt. It's
undeniable that this baby's basket can bounce, bounce, bounce, so
vulnerable to the splitting of the wood and the crying of the child's
watery mucus clogs her throat and all you hear is wah, wah, wah when
Xenon cries, like cheese cloth dipped in chocolate; hard to hear the
yelling when all you comprehend are feet tapping and music moving all around like
zig, zag, zook until you collapse, cause all you knew was dance, dance, dance.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.