A Poetic Call

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.