The Poem Makers Poem by Greg Gaul

Some cold forge words to make metal musings,
hammering, stammering then scribblings.
Pounding prose, forming phrases in viscous verse,
many manner of makers, none for the worse.

Some lift language right from the curb,
well-slung slang meant not to disturb.
Writers sling collected cliches on their backs,
kept rhymes for later times tucked in their sacks.

Some grand gaggles group in an overture -
symphonic notes capture the rapture.
Songs strung with wind, lilting lines of wit,
warm woods, sound shards sung from the poet's pit.

Some syllables strewn along paths in rows,
spent images cast aside where wisdom grows.
In ruffled rubble a glean glints in tones -
missed stars settled amidst sparkling stones.