THE POEM I WRITE IS ON ITS WAY

Exhausted I can only, but, say
The poem I write is still on its way,

But it is with dread I gaze upon
A cold and sterile page,
For lurking there I clearly see
A ragtag host of wriggling words
That will not settle down for me.
Nonentities all, they stand alone
Insensitive, a thoughtless breed
Spitefully wasting precious time,
For which I have a special need.

So into the war of words I stepped
And among the raging lines I crept,
I’d take no prisoners, I vowed to win
And the poem I write would then begin.
“Let battle commence,”
Italics were heard to mutter,
And alliterative bullets
From pentameter feet
Immediately started to stutter,
A meiosis groped a sad quatrain,
She cried aloud with passion,
“We are in no way unmindful my friend
Of your under stated aggression;”
Soon the muttering reached an alarming degree,
‘til bullied and gored by a spiteful spondee
The oxymoron, father of the man,
Overreacted and trampled
An unassuming iamb, who
With damaged limbs, and in distress
Circumnavigated the field
In the clumsy rhythms of an anapaest
For eight long hours the chaos ranged,
Until, loosing their ire, the rebels
Passing, through my conscious mind,
Were released refreshed and redefined.

Eight long hours, two lines complete
Fifteen short words for reader to greet.

Exhausted I can only but say
The poem I write is still on its way.