Some, sequential words arranged
according to forms as old
as Athens or David’s Psalms.
Cascading sounds,
crafted complexity
appearing simple,
fecund with meanings
to birth in us
some pleasant response.

Or

Some, hard hammered chaos,
disjointed cacophony,
strewn across a page to
disparage all harmony.
Misarranged,
these lines,
sounds broken ,
meanings scattered
shouting “Fire!”
on a crowded train.

Or

Some, sibilant as a whisper at midnight
awake us from our lingering apathy,
stir us to some change
and require better of us.

Or

Some, stark as ravens on a fence line
waiting somber,
cry “There be Whales!”
and draw us into
the intrigue of hunting words,
and we become their flotsam,
clinging to the wreck of  their
pictured abstractions
and drowning images.

And yet.

And yet, all these be poetry.