This ancient form began in the oral story-telling tradition possessing both lyrical and musical qualities. Today, it relies more heavily on the story-telling component with imagery that holds each moment together. Traditionally, it follows a specific form with quatrains (four-line stanzas) and an alternating rhyme scheme to keep the reader invested in the story told.  Look for it here:

"Ballad" by Sonia Sanchez

Hawaii by S.M.(M).L.

Something new is boiling,
but no one knows it.
There's a hot spot
in the Pacific today.

Molten magma bubbling
and burbling its way
to the surface,
cooling as it reaches
its first breath of salt-sea air.

Maybe it was just today,
suddenly land, or maybe
it was months, years,
millennia in the making,
no matter.

Birds find reprieve on its
black beaches leaving treasure
dropped in unsavory packages,
a fertilizer to new life.
Time passes. Trees grow
rain falls, brilliance abounds.

Something new runs up
on now sandy beaches, leaving five-
toed footprints never felt before,
digging holes and tamping down
different roots. A new sound,
Hawaii, forms on parched lips.

Fires burn bright, feet stomp out 
the hula, homes and love are made.
Peace reigns. Time passes.
Children grow, beauty abounds.

Something new pulls into port.
A mission is made, bringing new
ideas to an old place. A different 
sound, Lahaina, forms on seasick lips.
Languages are translated, hands are shaken,
a treaty is made. Change comes.
Time passes. Tolerance grows,
belief abounds.

Something new flies in 
from the blue. Gifts of leis are
placed around bowed-heads. First
taste of sun-warmed pineapple
passes through lustful lips.
Tourism begins, rest is found,
friendships are made. Joy comes.
Time passes. Knowledge grows,
beach-bathing abounds.

History is forgotten by most,
but is there in the lava flows,
the Molokini crater, the Leper 
Colony of Molokai, the bomb-
dropping on Pearl Harbor, and
the detonation on Kaho'olawe.

The whales still make their way
from frigid Alaska to birth their
babies in the shallow waters of
the sunken landmass, waterfalls
still pour into the valleys; and,
the Iao Needle still remembers
sacred rituals performed there.

Turtles swimming near Napili
remember and their return
to those beaches should remind
that time passes and change 
will come, but it is in our hands
to preserve the precious.

~With thanks to James A. Michener and his epic Hawaii

is a type of poetry that relies heavily on concrete images, much like the still life of painters.  Although typically short and an attempt at being void of any message, the simplicity itself often has something more to say.  Even among its founders there was room for derision.  Look for it here:

"The Red Wheelbarrow" by William Carlos Williams

Still Life by S.M.(M).L.

Those flowers in that vase.
That overflowing fruit bowl.

The window always open,
curtains blowing
a distant scenic view:
quaint town quieting
lapis water lapping
soundless snowflakes falling
     or, blossoms of an overgrown
     garden growing.
Sun always, just come up, or down.

The candles always but a stub; 
it must be up, after all.
A broken-open day glistening
on the partially peeled orange
the scent of certainty cloying
alongside wilting flowers.

No one is ever home 
having left in such a hurry.
Nature seeps in on a breeze:
fall leaves lie strewn
sometimes a lime green
parrot or elegant butterfly
alights among the petals.
Half camouflaged by brightness
but a nod that life exists.

Left in such disarray
exactly as it will be 
exactly as it was when
there was nothing but:
a chair by the window
a book on the sill
pen in the seam waiting,
     still.