My Contention

Planting my flag atop my sonnet’s peak and outward gazing at the vales below, I hear the rambling rivers, feel the faux flow and fumble of their groping technique; From high on up, I trace the snaky sneak of weak words—and weaker metaphors,—slow conclusions, mirroring the so and so… I am compelled, my judgement thus to speak: I declare war on free verse poetry! Ach! scourge on rhyme, blight on rhythm,—I’ll beat back the long-winded flood of half complete thoughts. With respect to whom I name my foe, if here you hear your name,—at least you’ll know: In the formless form—I find my enemy!