The Stand-Up and The Poet

The comic chases laughter; bright applause beneath bright lights.
Each joke returns with cheers, sparkling with flared highlights.
The poet casts quiet braided fly-lines into uncertain free air,
Not knowing where they'll settle, trusting someone to find them there.

Laughter often arrives on cue before another punchline starts.
The comic plays the audience, outwitting the many clever upstarts. 
The poet leans into the silence, hoping words reach waiting hearts.
They both treasure every thud and thump from well-flung verbal darts.

The comic trims each story into punchlines, sharp and strong.
The poet weaves in small clues and prompts, inviting readers along.
One, harvests roaring raucous applause, that fills every room.
The other, sows small seeds, expecting next spring flowers, will bloom.

The comic reaps the harvest well before the last laughter dies.
A joke can miss completely, falling flat in befuddled ears and eyes.
A poet keeps on casting many more lines, despite the lows and highs.
Awakening lost memories, with hushed oohs, ahhs, and silent sighs.

Of course there's slam, where poets chase applause with a spoken or sung flame.
Their verses leap from silent sullen pages, eager to stake their claim.
The crowd joins in with cheers and snaps, each heartbeat keeping time.
Half stand-up act, half-hand crafted verse — both reaching for the sublime.