Unlike most poems here, this one's for grownups. It's a fairly self-conscious argument against the name "concrete poetry." (There's an argument-poem for kids, too.)

THE CONCRETE ROSE*                                                                            A  rose  by  any   other name,                                                   (said Bi ll)     would   smell                                                     as  sweet  --   and    yet:                                                       If   words  from  rows              arose,  a    rose to                 make, why say                                                                 concrete?                                                                   Words                                                                      stem                                                                        from                                                                          our                                                                                             green                  thoughts                                                              up-             grown--          en-                                                              joy-            ing              rights                                                                                       to             spring;      they                                                                                                       leave        us           pic-                                                                                 tures      (themes  both                                                                                                                 told       and    shown,                                                                                                               when   we   thus                                                                                         sing..)                                                                                           Where-              fore                                                              must                 art                  so                                                                  light              of                  heart                                                                    by                such            grave                                                                    name         be           known?                                                                                     Why         should      we                                                                                               call       bright     gar-                                                                                                dens  grey? or                                                                                 turn                                                                                rose                                                                                                                                            in-                                                                                    to                                                                                      stone?                                                            THE       ROWS*                        THAT AROSE                             INTO A ROSE*                          *A lass, poor Gertrude, not a Stein.       copyright 2003 brad burg