Wooden Soul
I make this detection
upon introspection
of the woodblock inside me named soul
I'm sightless to beauty
on par with a cootie
or, moreover, an underground mole
I distinguish not burdock
from daisy nor hollyhock
a flower is a flower; just that
in all shades and shapes
their splendor escapes
their fragrance akin to rat
For music I've no ear
from hip-hop to austere
discordant cacophonies at best
hush is harmonic;
uncluttered by sonic
my woodblock is calm and at rest
Plaintive prose
gets right up my nose
and further if wordily verbose;
I don't mean to knock
but it's all poppycock
and frankly it's inclined to perturb us.
I have more to relate
let me share my pet hate
'tis birdsong, a misnomer of speech
birds scream and shriek
they squeal and they squeak
a maddening medley of screech
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