Poetry Is Not What It Was Poem by Dan Reynolds

Poetry is not what it was


Poetry is not what it was
Poetry is not yet what it can be
Its evolution stutters and starts
with each beaver colony who fall
upon its ambiguous tree-trunks
Eagerly they toil away
Gnawing, shaping
Dragging, building
Convictional build of the mighty dam

Aware of the others
who built downstream
Yet content to starve them of
the original source.
What of they who build upstream
And how far up?
The highest will surely
one day
plug the spring

The wisest will smash the dams
Let the waters of the word
Irrigate all they meet
At an easy pace
Flowing free to the flourish
of open-eyed elves
and mischievous merrymakers,
Unwittingly
Passing on
Passing over
The faithless prayer of equality.