Flow Apiece

 

were I an ailing spinster

downtrodden in whalebone stays

pale and pince-nezed nosy

would my verses flow

\snake oil slick\

along with river Thames?

I find I am much too hearty

to sit abed and scrawl

longhand iambic pentameter

with dainty perfect pen

so my words trudge

stagnant in the sludge.

were I an artiste avant-garde

flouting dilletante conventions

skirting societal hems

with off-color threads

\malcontent connection\

would my stanzas stitch

themselves permanent press?

I find I am much too staid

a slave to stoic strictures

to scribe poesy astride

a horse of different colors

so I scrawl off-kilter odes

to a life of stodgy standard

mayhaps the day will dawn

when my morphemes will march

with motoric locomotion

utterances in extremis

emotive brave locution

Unwritten Runes

on occasion

verses attack me

faster than I can speak

tongue twister vortex

more frantically

than my fingers can type

keyboard pounding.

they tumble pell-mell

from my synapses

and I am helpless

under the tumult.

 

on others

I am dragging the words

from the page

fiber by fiber.

I strain verses

from amidst the paper grains

reading between the lines

like the rings on the stump

of a drought-stricken tree.

the fiercest

of my sorcery spells

falls jangle-mangled

ode

of the end of rhmye

 

this parched poesy

will be the rune

of me