Pluck a Poet
Loves me, Loves me not?
Loves me, Loves me not?
Plucking petals is biased, as most flowers have 5 petals!
Counting the fingers and toes
of a poet, is ever so biased as well!
My dear, do you pluck me as a poesy, rhymester bard,
to test my love for you in similar ways?
To test the mettle of my wordsmithy scent charged sprays?
Would you love me if my words were ordinary plain speaking?
If my verses didn't rhyme?
Were not iambic pentameter, with five pairs to a line, ending unstressed!
If my sweet nothing whispers were rambling random, pussy purrs?
Not charged with double-meanings and hidden messages between the lines?
So tell me, my love, as honest as you can,
do you like the poet's word play and embellishment,
spoken by a twisted tongue, that can have irony's nail at the end of the tale?
Do you like your servings with enjambment, or just strawberry jam on toast?
Does a phonetic diphthong and sing along speech annoy you,
when chock full of rhymes, jangles, clangs, corny alliterations, onomatopoeia, metaphors and weird emotive words!
Or do you like plain simple steel-cut rolled-oat muesli meals, au naturel, unadorned?
My Dear, own up, pucker up, pluck me, and tell me true.
Would you still love me if I wasn't a poet, so blue?
Copyright ©
John Anderson
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