Poems Got Legs?

Still exploring the possibility that this impulse toward poetry has legs.  --Yesterday morning, pen poised over notebook --which is what I do every morning after my first cup of coffee, just on the chance I might have an idea-- what I did was not write down an idea or analysis but some "verse".  Verse is in quotes because it seemed more a mental disposition than any need to express an emotion.   The verse is questionable:

The green flower blooms near death.
After the rose there only are thorns;
without the rose, there only are thorns;
better the rose than only the thorns
but better thorns than death.
   It's wealth to write.
   But if not Homer,
   Why not Galt?
    If not to write,
    Why poor?
    Why rich?
Better the green stalk flush
Than a dry stalk withered.

I know what this means, I don't know if it was worth writing... except, as in everything, something is better than nothing, and maybe I did learn.  I do concentrate, that should mean development.

Later in the day, driving many miles out of town, the snippet of yesterday (that had no poem behind it) did reform itself (pretty much unbidden) as a legitimate poem:

Out of the woods but
still in the meadow.
How far yet to a green grass
firm to the stride, and known?

Legitimate, but minor.  This does argue that snippets are worth putting down, but also argues that it's only force of feeling that can make the mind do a good poem.  --It also might argue that "force of feeling" (by which I mean pain) might make the poem seem good just because a successful poem is a temporary release from that pain, and that release itself might be the judgment that the poem is good?  --I actually don't think so.  I think force of feeling is gift.  Presuming a poem can be written at all, it's the force that makes the poem.  --(I have diddled a bit with these as I typed them up and they are improved, so there is such a thing as simple skill.)

(I referenced Homer, by-the-way, because he was seen not as the beginning of Attic culture, but its culmination; none before him were preserved.  I still have the thought that the last century has been only a pit, but not a descent.  I still see it possible that Western culture can pop back up, that we can resume, that we can have good writers again.)
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The little Fraud
is an evident fraud,
defrauding only frauds,
but harming all:
fools, frauds, and freemen.

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