Hi folks, I, James Fowler, have been seriously writing poetry for fifteen or so years and being published for twelve. I write in many genres and forms becuase I believe the poem itself dictates what form it wants, though in my rewrites (many) I try the poem in prose poem, iambics, etc. Here is a prose poem. If you're not familiar with the form, a prose poem is in prose format, but uses all or some of the other poetic devices. Prose poems historically were used by the French surrealists, so I tend to use the form for my more surreal poems.

Storm

Pounding at my door. Thunder wants to party. I ask rain for a dance, lust dripping off her. Lightning cuts in. I cut back, wake up in the gutter, slipping down the drain, get stuck. Water backs up, overflows into the garage. The cat leaps into the car’s sunroof, escapes the carpenter ants who body-surf out the doors. Police charge the gutter with reckless conduct. Vigilantes set up scaffolding, threaten to unhang the gutter. I scream that the gutter is innocent, that I’m the one who’s guilty, that lightning made me do it. Firemen wash me out with a high-pressure hose, sweep me and the ants up in a dustpan and toss us off the back hill.