I am no more fit for the poetic form than I was the 9-to-5 work day
I learned that lesson early…by 27 my own task master
with no rhyme or reason to the days since.
They flow as they will or they should — meant to be
whispers the woman beneath the weight anything else.
Meant to be, too, the poems.
Never sonnet or senryu
villanelle or paradelle
rondeau, rispetto, or ode.
They are short and sweet or long and leggy
begging for edits, or begging for more:
I want some more please.
What, you think a free-verse poem doesn’t beg?
Doesn’t hold itself up and ask you to decide
……….half empty or half full?
……….half-baked or baked to perfection?
But how are you to know, really?
Especially if you dance to the beat
of that different drum and the music is so loud
you can’t hear yourself think
never mind rhyme.
So, never mind rhyme.
I don’t, and you don’t mind me.
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