Riding the Riddle

Rhyme is not a prison but a puzzle
Not to confine but refine and define
Not for the weak but that by which we speak
As by megaphone and not by muzzle
Meaningful pattern turns in the right hands
Water of prose into poetry's wine

Yet rare is the poet who understands
The true gravity of this alchemy
Heard in the silence and seen in the dark
Squaring the circle the taming of time
As practiced by madmen bearing this mark
Riding the riddle and gaming the rhyme

Poetry chooses some few for its will
Never loses nor refuses its thrill
To those who dare to answer it like me
We who claim the call then inherit all
Of poetry returning what it gave
Changed and exchanged saved by that which we save

Enslaved by poetry to be made free
As part of everything even if small

+Steven Curtis Lance



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