Waxing like a Laureate: Poetry Secrets of the Pros

Need a quick fix for that sonnet your stuck on?
There are a few words you can throw into
any line to make it more poetic.
Try "sky" or "wind", "leaves" or "flowers."

The stars always give infinitude.
Oceans, trees, clouds, and the moon
can make any line soar. Birds are the poet's
best way to talk about himself. Fire is surefire,

be it a roaring flame or one quiet little candle.
("Little" is a word that can work wonders)
Most of all, the heart.
The heart must always be mentioned.

The heart flows with the finest wine.
You can pair it with anything and it's good.
Rattling heart, rickety heart,
beefsteak heart, the heart as an ocean.

Watch as I put these techniques into effect:

The Moon makes
a sky of cool fire.
As birds moan
oceans of stars
my beastly heart
again goes trundling.

See? Pretty fuckin' poetic.

Oh, also, sunsets and sunrises.
Anything nature does really.
The poet is supposed to be alone.
Nature gives him something to talk about.

The Sound of No Hands Clapping: Haiku

Come closer to the night
my wonderful sun,
it's time you met the moon.

The dog's tail thumps
against his cage as
two travelers pull luggage
up the steps of a brownstone.

The treetops reach
for their lost leaves
and grasp the cold wind.

In Chinatown,
A dying shrimp leaps
from a pile of ice
into the snow.

Time casts the shadows.
Time moves the day.
The rain falls in moments
across the night.

The moon and clouds collaborate
on a graceful rain.

The brave tree clenches it's leaves
past the December winds
into January.

Central Park.
The carriage horses nod
to the ducks flying south.

We have come a thousand years
to this night of rain.
Another happy gift!

On my window
a bit of star
caught in a raindrop.

A cricket chirps
stowed away for winter
in the pot of my palm tree

Somewhere in the city
two lovers are not sleeping
to the song of the rain.

All over New York City,
hives of sleeping children
flying through their dreams.

All over New York City,
walls full of cockroaches
dreaming of the moon.

A man pushes a loaded cart
up the dark mountain
of the Manhattan Bridge.

A hunched woman pulls
from the garbage
one silver can.

The hermit finds his forest
in the happy city
of the graves.

The insomniac wind
walks like a widow
through every January night.

The rain sings across the windows
asking the flowers
to come back once more.

Moon, the soft light
of the bodega
will stay on all night.

I wonder how the sun
will fall tomorrow
on the black squirrels
of Washington Square Park.

A stars glows at the end
of your cigarette.
That last hour with you
was not even a moment.