It It looks like poetry; it reads like war,
or obscenity, self-pity, vent spleen.
It sees itself small, artless art the core;
too much the common touch shows itself mean.
And the work is easy—as bawd bestows
her favors like her beads; the flesh as garb;
reveals without respect for what she shows;
makes satisfaction without sate the barb. 

Poet, I know you; you, the one with heart,

withheld—bared, the best part, shone your honor.

We share, take care with pains we’d impart,

hone the stuff our darkest thoughts dishonor.

So, we care gaudy baubles pass as jewels?

Well…we’re obscure, and they’re the famous fools.

© Helga Ross 2004, 2008, 2019.