PaulsPen

Not a metapoem

With just seventeen
syllables, three lines, you’d think
this would be easy.

Not a sestina,
perpetuating itself
like a blind weaver,

or a stodgy old
sonnet, sticking to fourteen
guns, the infantry.

Evil villanelles
and that whore terza rima
are easier tamed

than a plain haiku,
moment of awakening,
poet’s nirvana.

But frigging Basho
just breathes, and a universe
appears in his pen.

Form is emptiness.
Zen teaches impermanence,
interdependence,

so with just one breath
this poem does not exist.
And neither do you.

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