There is no order to a poem
No demands made or met
Paper and ink come without shackles
And yet, language has power,
A verse may hold you captive, spellbound,
Words browbeat you, leaving you raw and crying
Lead you to change your opinion,
Mend your ways, even fall in love.
Naturally there is a word for this,
Allowing us to pass sentence on such a construct,
Both praising and damning a few lines,
Summing up the power of written thought
In three syllables, at a stroke.
One dirty, descriptive word:
Compelling.
paper
Red letter day
I like playing dominoes
Paper really curls my toes
The deluxe feel of crisp new sheet
Before I write, I find quite sweet.
Yet shuffling day by sorry day
The same old forms I cannot say
Touches me with quite as much
Excitement at their slicing touch.
Katherine Shirley 