10-Ode to the Schwa

You’ve been calumniated, bosom buddy  

of burps, accused of lazily pursuing 

attention as the speaker dithers 

while you assume your alias of “Uh.” 

You definitely deserve a better rep. 

Your gusts can blow Homeric lotuses  

to sailors of audio waves, relieving them, 

except for some sick-stomached sounds, of stress. 

When formalist poets begin their game 

of jumping from black stone to gray to black 

again across the gravel lot, your gleam  

quite often marks the way, and when they think 

the rumble of bass drums isn’t loud enough, 

the gentle shaking of your tambourine 

provides a contrast to the clamor. 

Amalgamation of the wind, the pebbles, 

percussive force, and more–that’s what you are. 

Within your modest puffing through the larynx, 

the multitudes unite in peaceful flanks.