Have you read a poem lately; they're all written in ‘free verse’.
Like the murmurs of a hippy high on drugs or something worse,
They're a dangling meander through the tulips of their time,
Where the last thing that they care about comes on the second line.
Seems the weirder that you make them, the more you are adored;
Proving anyone can write them, stringing words of scant accord.
Like a drug-induced arrangement, spewing text because you can,
And as I've yet to try and read them out‘s a clue - I'm not a fan.
At first I thought it must be me; I've been so out of touch,
So I searched for poems said to rhyme, and not found very much,
Just a few odd bits of free stuff with a rhyming paragraph
Bereft of lines to make you think or even make you laugh.
Then next I read that publishers look down on rhyming bards,
And say their work’s just fit for kids or lines in birthday cards.
These leaders of the literary world are steering us to ruin;
Poem’s fate is in their hands, and they don’t know what they’re doing.
Try this: give new poems to a regular chap and bid him read to you,
And he'll be in 'free verse freefall' before he’s half way through.
I further bet he’ll raise his head and ask you, “What’s the plot?
I can't go on; this makes no sense - is this a joke or what?”
Oh no, old son, you’re doing well; it's from a leading poet.
It’s top class stuff, renowned by all - but you wouldn’t frigging know it.
I've written poems fifty years and never planned to cash them;
Just my damn luck I go to try – to find they're out of fashion.
Copyright © Dennis East | Year Posted 2015
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