This year I am writing prose--prosaic indeed. So instead of posting my own poems, I'll post some of my favorites from the greats. Beginning (and probably ending) with, of course, Dickinson.
"Heaven"—is what I cannot reach!
The Apple on the Tree—
Provided it do hopeless—hang—
That—"Heaven" is—to Me!
The Color, on the Cruising Cloud—
The interdicted Land—
Behind the Hill—the House behind—
Her teasing Purples—Afternoons—
Enamored—of the Conjuror—
That spurned us—Yesterday!
- Emily Dickinson
Where does she go in her third stanzas? It's so typical of her to take off in stanza 3, as if the first two allow her to accelerate to the speed of ascent.