S--T Happens

S--t Happens! Does sharing s--t with others make one's poems poetry: Blank verse or rhyme with meter win if metaphors disguise The fact that truth is absent: is there love in bigotry, A plethora of nuance monkey typists might devise? Do we owe praise to Coptic Priests whose work is all but free, Whose muses obfuscate obscure: confusion proves their worth? By God! They posture too, or so some say! It's their celebrity, Like crosswords, with the clues in Martian language (not of Earth.) Though I've made A's at Stanford with my poem's in 'Free Verse, ' Enamored, I love meter, rhyme, for both can proffer pause, New words that float more gentle dreams, in stillness more diverse Than rush, my muse so often spills, unbound by human laws. For me, a poem's poultice is my prayer to the night Whose fingers somehow chill the soul. It's worse when I've no voice. A poem's wolf's call echos back when hills are out of sight, If I'm alone I moon the sky, sweet rhymes, my music's choice! Brian Johnston 3rd of April 2019