As one like you can surely tell,
a poet uses new and old words quite well
Tho' this is not about the poet that is me
'Tis a tribute to a little mark-you'll see
Of course reading certain words can make magic
Or their arrangement can prove to be quite tragic
Placed in such precarious ways
deciphering both what and how it says
since this symbolic form of communication
is not simply a mere matter of translation
Language is omnisciently living
Poetry is an expression of giving
Words in their proper form and place
Dependent on others, used in a certain case
But the power of a quiet comma-
(O The sheer drama!)
It's an Order, telling you to wait-
hanging below the surface, like dangling bait
(If you may wonder why can't we use more than one
in a row, it's the sound of panting after a run
that is how that's done
and to read that would be fun
for both nary and no one)
Admit it, even a serial comma sounds a bit scary
it has me shaking in my Oxfords' a fright wary
'Tis all this blatant punctuation abuse
(O all the overt dis-obeyance and misuse!)
Yet, let us never forget
we owe the comma a great debt
For the comma controls and catches and releases your breath
It's diligent appearance delays the death
of a single, stretched and solitary sentence
that goes on and on with a vacuous vengeance.
I came across this article "Going, Going, And Gone?" by Linda Holmes on NPR after writing this poem-actually, while posting it, and found it to be thoroughly a very entertaining read! Witty, refreshingly honest and literally, no, poetically well written.
Image By Historic American Engineering Record, Tim Whitely "Trolling illustration"[Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
