Wednesday, December 9, 2015
by Jim Rapp
The masses like their poetry to rhyme,
to undulate while beating time
with every shift of phrase or line;
an easy ode to quote or mime.
The pros are taken by oblique
ramblings coming from the deep
recesses of the unconscious keep
in which their inky musings steep.
I shoot down the middle mostly,
rhyming when I can do so justly,
not when it trivializes thusly;
plumbing the keep in deep futility.
To each his own they often say,
store shelves are filled that way;
but with poets’ books? Today?
Nor deep nor rhyme nor any form of lay.