Poem, revised draft

I had to write this poem again.
I left the first draft on the train
and now it doesn’t look the same.

The original was a paean to Love,
to Truth, to Beauty. It soared above
the everyday and all that stuff.

It would have healed estranged lovers’ rifts,
stilled the sands on which time shifts
and stopped the world before it drifts

further into quagmired crisis,
ended famine, toppled ISIS.
Employed ingenious literary devices.

I tried my hardest to recall
its words and rhymes, the rise and fall
of the carefully cadenced crawl

through the English language.
But it caused me pain and anguish
for there was little I could salvage.

It certainly didn’t end with a line like this.

Make Poetry Not War

Leaders of the world,
stop your fighting.
Invest your time
in poetry writing.

Enough of all those
military manoeuvres,
concentrate on
more literary oeuvres.

Think about the planet,
when you plan
to drop a bomb upon it,
pause, ponder, then pen a sonnet.

Or if there’s somebody
who doesn’t like u,
appease them with
a humble haiku.

Let words be your weapons,
Metaphors your missiles.
Search out strident stanzas.
Ditch your Trident planzas.

Write a peace poem about a pipe,
an olive branch, a dove.
Take a ticket to Tender Town,
aboard the quatrain of love.