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A Poem on Poems

What I'd Want Aliens to Know About Earth

By Brynne NelsonPublished 6 months ago 2 min read
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From an early age, I've loved experimenting with poetic forms. Rhyming poems are especially fun. This structure, you may notice, follows a unique format:

A x3

B x3

C x3

D x3

E x3

F x3

G x3

H x3

G x3

Fx3

E x3

D x3

C x3

B x3

A x3

***

“What is a poem?” Asked my new friend from Mars.

“Can you touch it? Or smell it? Is it sold in bazaars?”

Perhaps might one use it in nutrient jars?

“Or is it a creature? Do poems live in prides?

Are they pointed out by poet-safari guides?

Or maybe could I take some poem-back rides?

“A poem—“ I started, not sure what to say,

“A poem’s a record of feeling some way;

A missive, a story, a way you might pray.

“A poem’s an art form. Perhaps,” I apprised,

“They can soothe or can strengthen what within man’s soul lies.

Poems are one good way to describe what you prize.”

“Art? Made of smooth stonework? Carved out of a tree?

Is a poem a thing that is taller than me?

Can it be a dread thing; some fell horror to see?”

“A poem inspires; a poem ignites

A mind with new fires, for thoughtless-cold nights.

A poem can lift your heart like winds lift kites.

“Or perhaps, if the poem is dreary and sad,

It makes you cry out for lost *someone* you had.

Or maybe it’s silly with rhymes that are bad.”

“But what is it made of?” The other inquired.

“How could I go craft one, if I so desired?

What building materials would be required?”

“Just words from your soul, friend,” I said to this lad,

“For the power of words can be sorry or glad;

At least, here on Earth,” I remembered to add.

“I see,” said the creature; his voice growing bright.

“That’s different from things home on Mars, to my sight.

At home we feel deeply with tunes soft and light.”

“That can be good too,” I had to agree.

“But you asked ‘bout Earth things that are extraordinary.

If you ask me, God is found in man’s poetry.”

The alien’s brow bent with puzzled surprise,

And he rapidly blinked each one of his three eyes.

Then he raised those wide peepers, gave a look to the skies.

“Words can carry power on Earth, then, you say;

Poems, stories, new speeches, and tired cliches.

What a wonder! What magic! What a way to convey!”

“Yes! You see what I mean!” I then happ’ly replied.

“Poems, stories, great words, carry power inside.

They can reach across distance and from those who’ve died.”

When my friend returned to his hometown off on Mars,

He carried my notebook— “My Best Poems, by Lars,”

Bringing words and their power as he sailed through the stars.

art
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About the Creator

Brynne Nelson

I'm a writer. I'm a wife and a mom. I'm a human.

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