For the Poets

I haven’t written verse great or small for far too long a time,
There was a once upon a past when I could sing no wrong,
Now allegory, metaphor, simile take days far past dark.
Counting meter, syllables, accents takes so much,
I may as well write blank prose, with ham-fisted touch.
 

It seemed kindled spark had left me bereft of any rhyme,
I’ve always intended to return, regale them with song.
Those friends I left behind, pursuing misguided glory,
I offer this apology, thanks for times they’d respond,
Made me strive to find my limits, dared me to press
beyond.
 

Yes, those who most care must realize, the blame is all
mine,
See, I‘ve relearned I can sing, though I still can get it wrong,
I know; I’ve taken too long an enforced caesura.
Ignoring all the while, lives on which hung my very tales.
For glory’s in the telling, words’ billowing on clear sails,
                 Not laurel-bestowed, self-perceived genius of
this poet.