Some perhaps more fortunate poets will
With greater ease urge their heeding quill,
To tell in switching tones many juicy tales,
Of love-aided treks and shipwrecked sails.
Not so for this goofing lyricist whose
Heart-felt lays Muse hesitates to aid.
His adequately regaling yarns refuse
To relay accounts by raw feeling said.
While true impulse says song is sweet,
His loth pen lies that such ditties cheat
The listening heart with strange sights,
With fake ideals set on fictious heights.
Although unsullied emotion colors love
As that rare thing that it has often been,
His pabulum lines mar it with banal ink,
Cladding in dross the slick gold unseen.
The blundering odist displays want of skill,
But let his themes not lose their latent thrill.
Categories:
odist, art,
Form: Rhyme
My inky echoes conflate,
atop mountains of ivory versos;
Blank pages into whispers,
like the sway of moonlight tides;
Papers dappled by my ineffable,
frays of jet-black cursive swirls;
My best ideas are forever found,
somewhere amidst silent worlds;
'Tis best to search for me right before,
the feathery quill touches to the page;
Arisen from the blotter, my hand held in totter,
but before I drizzle down the tar;
Where my psyche thinks loud,
with the rhythm and the rage;
A battle-ballet of coarse cashmere haze,
only then does my heart think to open up its cage;
Still I promise to always behave like a poet,
one who is the epitome of an idyllic odist;
Solemn ink be my savior, perhaps a mind lost in time,
resonant verse between blinks, my soul in the lines--
March 15, 2016
Categories:
odist, poets, self,
Form: Free verse