Ars Poetica ( after Archibald MacLeish ),

A poem is only a visible deity
as a raspberry sundae peony,
 
Possessing the gaul
to die upon its green pedestal,
 
Falling
silently upon its earthen vault—
 
A Poem doesn't desire to be
a wild beast marking territory,
 
Its roaring mouth  
watering puberty's drought.  
 
It's not a royal subject  
regally crowned in public,  
 
But a pauper in the streets  
offering salvation to the meek—  
 
Its worn baskets  
overflow in humility,
 
It eschews front row seats  
to the symphony
and any semblance of luxury.
 
It doesn’t understand
the need for grand-strands.
 
It wanders through slums
sups with sinners and publicans,  
 
Offers coffers of wealth
from its own breath.  
 
It doesn’t live in a mansion
but under the banyan,  
 
Its branches thick with protection.  
 
It suffers children and villains  
heavy laden and unforgiven.
its lesson—
 
A Poem is conceived  
from a spirit of belief,
 
It rises above  
petty squabbles and war.  
 
It is slowly nursed  
from a poet’s breast  
 
Until released  
to become wholly itself.