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Personal Note:
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Poem
Determined to read and plant the seed fast
   to emulate poets of the present and past.
I staked the library display Whitman, Kilmer, Frost, unnamed arrays
   including Sandberg and St. Vincent Millay.
It was in the search I found,  all the hype and repertoire written down
   was not at all the poetic forms with which I was smitten bound.
Didn't seem to care for Whitman or Wilde at all
   the body electric exuded no phantom call
   and Platt, Poe and Frost were all but lost in my thrall.
Perhaps, it the sign of the times, things fail in reason and rhyme,
   maybe all i need is a half full glass of wine.
Then poetic lines could fall dispersed like druids
   and Angelou, Mckuen and more recent poet flow fluid
   with others of today, more appropo and relevant to do it.
Some remain unnamed and even anonymous
   providing better sketches and images for each of us
   with decades and centuries surpassing the tested trusts.
The form remains, rewritten and changed, extending steady frames
   of both narrative and ballad strains
   of rhyming quintains and quatrains.
My words slip in and out, thin and stout
   alas, I am a poet with little clout
   too ready to reveal all I am about.
This poetic artistry calls to release my joy and woes
   to put on paper and ink disclosed,
   my meager and more intricated prose.
It's like an inner desperate fever, racking mind with a clever,
   with my efforts and my struggles willing and eager
   to force the write chewing pages like a beaver.
Oh, here it comes, the poor catch phrase that plays,
   thoughts floundering to stay the mindless sway
   inching along the text each page and day.
Still, I try with the efforts to daily write
   relay some message of this internal desperate plight
   to make the words better and come out just right.
It is some strange obsessive poetry call
   to which my mind is merged, forever enthralled
   as i release perceptive misconstrues unballed tales tall.
Hear me, hear my anxious enterprise
   revealing what I see with open closed eyes
   release on occasional success to my surprise.
A word or two or three, a phrase or line of rhyme
   in it, seeking satisfaction to securely find
   indeed, it's all me, myself and mine.
Should the call appeal, far and wide
   you, yourself should give it a try,
   release the hounds, the words will fly.
So, heed it just once more, these poetic chores
   striking in strange, complex, simplest chords
   meandering of poetry once removed and then restored.
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