Pipes  &  Modest Bowls

Some believe that a poem flows like water through a long
pipe. In this overwhelming rhythm of this flow may the
universal also be spied, in overflow, as currents surge the
endless miles.
Large and commodious the vowels become liquid at the end.
The consonants on the other hand 
are washed away—like stones they collect at the final
period
 –the last drain. 
 Leaving gold flakes in memory for those that still have
breath. 

Then in swirling 
empty.


Others believe
that poems drips
on pages
humble lines
release
 the dreaming birds.

In simple
stanzas
collect 
the clumsy temples
flowing past:
splash the words,
&  fly the spaces.

Gentle 
droplets
please swim
in the 
skin thin
ribs  
to echo
in a poet’s
modest 
bowl.