Email Poem

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Poem

>What is poetry?  Other than words written by human hand.
In perhaps a language few understand.
For when translated, it may lose its intended flow.
My mind recalls the officer asking for reinforcements.  We are going to advance.
He was rewarded by a motorcycle messenger arriving.
Who braved the canons of the enemy delivering an envelope.
Opening it, the officer found three shillings and four pence.
Also, a message stating.  Entrance for dance.
We will be late.  Please save last dance for me.
Of course, no such request or reply was ever sent or received.
At  least.  I hope not . As either way, someone would be disappointed.
Poetry me is what the writer's brain interprets and transmits to the hand.
Holding the pen, pencil or even hovering over some keypad.
Finally committing to print whatever is decreed.
Not all appreciate what one writes.
But poetry is not written for financial reward.
Even if some of us who write hope it is...
Should it be able to score goals?  Well that's another story.
Or, of course is a poem is in the making?
It is now 7:30 AM and I must rise.
Wash, make breakfast and as it is a day of rest.
Return to my bed, where I can check my emails.
And see if anyone has made any comments.
On my poetic prose in poetry soup.
Where who knows, one may have scooped.
A comment from you if you have looked.
At what I've wrote by day or night.
At least I got that last line right.
Although it's early, it's now not light.
Now as I've got my rhyming right
I'll say good day and not good night.

I do not know why I've written this here, as is not really poetry, I know, I can hear you.  But was in my brain cell, so I had to say.  Now I'll pack up and try to sleep today.  (The mad author)<

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