Alright, so here are four separate poems I wrote about poems or about writing poems. I've put them here in a series of four. (One of the assignments in my class is to write a series of 7 poems... I may expand this series for it... then again, I might not.) Enjoy!
I went out one rainy night in spring
To search for the perfect poem in the city lights.
I found only a soggy sweatshirt,
Black blotches on my blue jeans,
Very wet socks and water on
My eyeballs—those windows to my soul.
I don’t write poems very often.
Despite this lamentable fact
They occasionally write me.
On those days, I don’t open
The envelopes holding bills
But let them accumulate
On my desk like piles of leaves.
You wouldn’t believe
The things the poems write me.
So I won’t tell you.
Not here, not now.
I walk the trail of nothing
With my fingers in the soup
Twisting delicate candy wrappers
Into patterns of edible story.