Look again; vérité, is that what you perceive
is it truly terrene that you can somehow believe.
Or do you in advisement of poetry’s verse
see nothing but the author’s tragic sins or worse.
Can you in your foundling fays of poetic geste
fess to words in ways another’s éclat espouse.
Or do you perhaps mock pretence to its unrest
that un-girts gaugers into suture’s souse.
When first Poeticus met word’s vagrant queen
and spoke for those words the waiting world astound
chroma washed poets’ curst patriarchal scene
to flower first blush amongst a virid stound.
That like a mercer swan from river’s rush’d reed
held no court to they that were uncertain shade
and in styler’s majestic mimes, feather cede
so like worth’s own, a liberate word it lade.
What prose in all its proairesis sense portray
those idyll thoughts it would by better witness quote
on time’s marble slabs -mentations past cares convey
or agrestal sounds of woodnote’s wild choleric troat.
Fatuus that ignis of man’s elegiac mind
those flitting lights, flaunting voice its pon Varolii
demarche on what unclaimed ground they may so find
to bring orthian says our bruit cuss of sigh.
Could seers of wiser words and own simplicity
give strophe in ways that we too the blind may see
and hear us that music of their unpardoned soul
whereby prophesy, poet’s word rebus Sheol.
Vers libre, mind’s hybrid of minuet’s acclaim
contemporary shabby statuettes of shame.
Decry great poets of untold pages perfect verse
and give untutored gifts as means of reimburse.
To leave us with their last and unremembered words
that flies as dry autumn’s leaf it so affined.
To rest rimaye, degenerate dingus begirds.
Ten million words, few readers sought themselves to find.