I am suspicious of acrostics because they can often encourage contrived and/or poor poetry. What happens, I think, is that to write an acrostic you start with the word you want to spell, and the poem is then "forced" to get to the word. (In much the same way as we often see forced rhymes.) Spelling out a word may make for a successful acrostic, but not necessarily a successful poem.
That said, here's one I did very quickly a ways back (I set a twenty minute target, but - with tweaks - it probably ran about thirty minutes) to make a hidden point about certain aspects of Free Verse - but it makes the point about acrostics as well. (The acrostic is buried in the first letter of each line, with stanza breaks defining the individual words.)
Lexington and Twenty-Seventh, 4:00 AM
This is the kind and time of night when even taxi drivers
hide inside their cabs,
inhale a slab of lukewarm pizza, cup of joe,
stare at the dead and rainslick streets.
Inside the cafeteria three Russian Mafioso
sip sweet tea with brandy, talk of Kiev.
Talking, talking, talking, drowning out the
others, Oleg Penkov,
tieless, slick grey suit, suit sleeves pushed up:
ape-paw cradling a tiny cell phone
like King Kong once held Miss Fay Wray.
Here is where the world ends Thursday mornings.
Observe these steamed-up, greased-up windows, here a
rat-infested kitchen,
sixpack whores in golden miniskirts.
Enjoy the smell of Mary Jane and cabbage soup,
step past needles on the bathroom tile.
Here is where
it’s at
tonight.
Mother, may I step inside?
Eenie, meenie, minie, moe,
Anything you do is fine,
Naughty momma can’t say ‘no’.
It’s so wet and dark in here,
Nothing ever seems to breathe
Gentle voices purr and murmur
Let us stay and never leave.
Endless chasing after whispers,
Sorrow follows, sorrow grieves,
Sends me down the path of thieves.
Who now slides between the tables,
over-heated, perfumed, presence?
Rest here, Mother, Oleg wants to talk some more,
drink, eat, piss, drink, talk, and take a chair -
sit your ass down, Mother dear.
(Adorning the left hand,
nested in a golden ring, face-
down, the Tsar of All the Russias.)
In the doorway, two newcomers,
men in sweatsuits, lean, obtrusive.
Are we ready, mother, are you near?
Greyhound swiftness brings them closer
Eat, my Oleg, time is
short.
[This message has been edited by Michael Cantor (edited May 12, 2006).]
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