This poem started out intending to be about Obama’s walkabout in the Middle East, and then quickly died a death; it seems, somewhat similar to his much-broadcast initiatives.

So returning to poetry, I thought there was not much difference there either.

One-half of the English-speaking world seems to have great difficulty understanding what the other half is talking about most of the time.

So, I got to think about an extremely stimulating conversation I had with Mike Burch of “The HyperTexts” about the authoritarian accuracy of today’s free verse poets, whereby he expressed the view that technical correctness in poetry was not overly important.

Such, mistakes being part and parcel of poetry’s history.

Which, I have to agree is perfectly true , even the very best have been guilty of such a trifling mumpsimus.

My objection, however, is centred on a current well-known poetry editor who persistently salts his prose poetry with technical terms; which it seems he has not the least idea what they mean.

They seemed to be chosen more for their aesthetic appeal than any accuracy.

Which to my amazement they then goes on to win prizes, or at least are judged by his peers as being excellent, when it is obvious that they too are oblivious to the errors, yet those same people will descend like the banshees of Hell, at the sight of a misplaced comma?

Apparently such inclusions now being adjudged as an essential element of free verse, you notice how the French were very careful to classify it as verse, and not poetry.

It is strange how modern poets never noticed the subtle distinction.

 Needless, to say, I give them plenty to rave about. As the following lines, will undoubtedly show.

Moreover, as usual, there will be those who understand it, and those who do not have clue what I am prattling on about .

However, that is life. You can seldom please one without upsetting another.

This leaves one with the sad conclusion that one might just as well please one’s self and let the rest go to hell, or somewhere just as congenial that meets their need.

I did not come in this world to spend my time in a poetry boot camp licking arses, not when there some very nice arses available elsewhere.

                                               “Oremus”

There’re those who cast more than their doubt.
On those self-versers of: orate fratres.
Those mumbled words they loathe to shout.
soon dissipate in aesthesis of dead verses.

For there are those who are inclined to say,
what poets write, must be in vers libre.
It matters not what sense it seeks array
It’s only there for best part of one’s cliche.

 They’re but fruit flies! I almost hear wit say,
enjoying, their short moments of display.

No more, a genre, one recites at length
Or cherish those that gave art its great strength.
To stay in tribute to- man’s better mind.
What chance we now such cherished gems to find.

Whilst oysters are subject to our forage
pearls lie in matrix of their lustred form
where gifted aragonites of our language
reveal a beauty their lone words perform. .

Where, all is now paste, such gem’s subterfuge
like jumbled Lego blocks of sad writ compense.
The lurid ruse of plastic poetry’s fake rouge;
Speak ill to those whose wish be of finesse
and poets’ words they can, bring back at will.

Where free verse is, but worded mind's unrest
pretty words picked for reasons it’s outguessed.
To lie in fragmentation's own kaleidoscope;
and give glass view, of poetics abandoned hope.

But yet, one can still hear the Bow bells of that distant time.
When ingenuity gave the listener, its reasons rhyme.

For as the joiner said -to his unkenned
a more than often, lonely coffin maker.
One can easily lay bricks, set end to end
it’s the buttering that shows who is the faker.

To, leave poor prose no word to hand,
a course without means of its closure.
Or raise its protest high upon its stand.
And there debate such quasi-wrongs exposure.

Mor.