~ Were you born in the wrong century? ~
Would you have fit in at King Arthur’s table
been a blood-stained Crusader if able
In Rome, been a patrician or plebe
or like Cassius, have a plot up your sleeve
Would you have pondered with Galileo the night sky
or been a ‘flat-earther’ who never asked why
Would you, like Washington, have forded the Delaware
even if you had but moth-eaten rags to wear
Would you have bad-mouthed cars for the sake of your horse
sabotaged phone lines to preserve Samuel Morse…
Well, let me tell you, as for me,
I would have joined Fred and Barney Flintstone
for a ride on a pterodactyl built for three
Tide brings a sad story
Tale of hope and fury
Taciturn taxi driver gives a laugh
Task amend a rogue cop
Teacher-officer teach a plebe
Tear a heart turn to grave
Text a crying mother for a help
Tame a bully child to a sheep.
This one's a dork
That one's a nerd
Both of 'em geeks
Couple of nerds
This all started
with fraternity rush
'Carry my bags!
You freshman plebe
You are so kind she says.
I smirk inside, knowing I am not.
She does not know that I loathe her.
I gloat in my subterfuge.
You are marvelous he says.
I am shocked, never liking anything about myself.
Where does this word come from?
How did it originate in his plebe brain?
You are creative, she says.
I look around; where am I?
What kind of illusion is this?
Who are these people?
You are so in touch with yourself, she says.
I wonder to whom she is speaking.
I turn and look behind me, seeking the source.
Surely these things are not about me.
Do I really have all of these people fooled?
Or is it me that is a confused harlot?
I flit away from the masses and study a reflection in the mirror
Wondering how I have missed this imposter all of these years.
Some truths should not be said out loud:
By thought alone they may be formed.
To make them known is not allowed,
Because the plebe might be informed.
Some facts are shocking to the mob
And treated as deceptive schemes.
Woe to the man who tries to rob
The human race of hopeless dreams!
Find my poems and published poetry volumes at www.eton-langford.com
Poetry has a hidden meaning,
words designed to invoke a feeling,
unveiled by the writer to his prey.
A graphical hook, the trap now set,
imagery, a heroic couplet.
The poet’s task is finally a lay!
Ballad, limerick, and sometimes haiku,
envoi, epic, and often rondeau,
His hunting methods seldom concrete.
He appropriates all the time it takes.
The reader’s tenacity he breaks.
To finally enlighten is his feat.
His enjoyment has at last been filled.
Even as his plebe is being skilled,
The onus of work is now complete!
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