Who can say to the “poet”er…

Push fiercely and let me come forth
My brilliance awaits to arrive
Others must know my inestimable worth
and once I am born I will thrive

Don’t rhyme me!


No one will ever take me seriously if you do that
(But I’m sure that a rhyme will surface e’er long)
and for Keat’s sake, don’t use unnecessarily archaic words

like e’er…

or archaic.

There once was a very young poem
A fetus as yet to be born–
Oh for the love
of Shakespeare above–

Not that, anything but that.
I will not be born
as poetry porn
or a child’s doggerel.

A poem born for magnificence am I
a thing of beauty and truth,
and truth, beauty,
that is all

You need to know…


But woe that I am not drawn forth lovingly from the pen of a Browning
Or blazened from the sword of a Blake
or even tickled from the feather of Ogden

Nash my teeth

My tragedy!


A hack, a poser, pretender
a lack of wit and charm
a master of uneven strokes.

No Lamaze could retrain out these stuttering breaths
No Milton-like themes of life and deaths
No heights to explore, no plummeting depths
No! a mind of great smallness, rather than breadth.

Just my luck.

Like Shelly’s creation
(Now there was a wonder!)
My life’s no elation
but merely a blunder.

One time I rhyme,
the next moment I don’t
my rhythm is a complete mess with little reason to it and very little seeming planning

or skill.
I will
make one final plea
don’t let me be

Destroy me now,
before I become a purple cow.

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