Found poetry feels a little bit like cheating to me. You pull words and lines from existing sources and reform them to your own purposes. Here’s one I cobbled together from Chapter 42 of “Moby Dick.”

But I “wrote” one anyway, and here it is:

Found Poem

What he was to me could not awaken some alarm,
its intensity so that I almost despair of it.
The whiteness of the whale above all things
might be naught.
Modern kings mark a joyful day; and though
sweet, and honourable, and sublime, there yet lurks
terror, transcendent horrors, ghastly whiteness.
Those clouds of spiritual wonderment and pale dread.
I have frequently seen the thing —
the archangelical apparition loathed by his own,
strangely hideous.
Her ghost is lingering there.
We fail while these terrors seize us,
But let us try.