The Poet’s Crime
Poems have no bounds
From setting sun to high sea
That is why I'm free.
Freedom from strict rules
Freedom from Conformity
Freedom's not for fools.
Poetry's Science
Of not just rhythm and rhyme
Nor a waste of time.
Haiku are nifty
But don't misinterpret me
Poet's style is key
Sonnets to ballads
Odes through Epics and Free Verse
But now I digress.
You, me, Poetry
What an interesting theme
Here I go...rhyme scheme.
Free, Fi, Fro and From
Ask not where the poems come.
Ask not why the pen does write,
Ask not when under candle light.
Ask not what the words do mean,
Ask not if the writer’s keen.
Ask not how the lines do rhyme,
For this is the Poet’s Crime.
My Paintings were Poor
And my Photos fell flat
My Novels did bore
And my Acting went splat.
My music was bland
And my playing was painful.
My dancing was remand
And my sculpting was at best pitiful
The only Art I excelled
As seen through my eye.
Was to make words meld
From the scenes of the earth and sky
Now I am not saying “I’m great,”
I’m nowhere near that goal.
But I do wish to litigate
And jump that pole.
I’m currently studying to be an attorney
And practice in New York and New Jersey.
So when did I first become a poet?
I guess it was around 7th grade
When first I was assigned it
A poem about me without aide.
Not an easy thing to do
But with a little time and an old typewriter
I made a breakthrough
After pulling an all-nighter
With poem called “Do you Know me?”
A mix of Seuss and Shakespeare
And read like Dead Sea debris.
A little something that might hurt to hear.
From there, my subject matter grew
“No Free Ride,” “Bass Fishing” and more
To the stars I gave a thank you
Odes about the rain to tales of folklore
I dabbled in history
The Red Baron to the “Silent Warehouse”
Ballads of liberty and honor, not regret or misery.
I have laid down about to drowse
But awakened by ideas, concepts, rhymes and riddles
Flushing through my mind
Like bows across old country fiddles.
The Muse is not kind
To let me keep my previous thoughts
So forced I am to record
For fear of memory knots
And lose ground explored.
Of the multitude of styles I used
The Epic was by far my ultimate task.
An Invocation I was bemused
My frustration I had to mask.
Homer and Dante lit the way
But none as helpful as Milton’s “fall.”
A theme not too removed nor too cliché
A man’s climb from his own end’s thrall.
Now it’s not complete
Only a few chapters to go
But my mind is deplete
My thoughts are at a status quo.
But let’s not get off track
So what is poetry to me?
Poetry is a Napoleon cognac
Odists turning puddle into the sea
Every word is worth its weight
There are no equals
Romans, Greeks and others of late
Yet why must we record virtues and evils
I know the poet’s vice
Study, practice and write...a costly price
Looking for meaning
In every little thing
From the end back to the beginning
Even if it’s demeaning.
So here is my guilty plea
Poetry has is a piece of me
My body and soul, even at my own chagrin.
This is my poet’s sin.