I would not count Alexander Pope
for essays on criticism emulatable
or rhyming Sopho’s lines
with free verse quite inflatable
The Rubicon of signs is language to bear
shaggy, woolly, mammoth
saber toothed tares
sewn to the winds bright froth foam to share
Tawddgyrch Cadwynog, Cyhydedd Hir
through woods’ too lonely, dark and deep
with double trouble, soil and grub
lay crenelated rubble- iambic pentameters to keep
Noh rhyme fated vines to people kind maidens
or fill the fields of echo’s hallowed havens
where warre trod heavily over winter’s mists
for many a son felt death’s fast swift kiss
Poems were hollow those fated morns
when politicians made themselves living statues
the legend shot out hope with the mind of a gun
leaving good reason no good place to run
Write, write till the art’s content
of prosody and power, shrapnel and bowers
lives spent without thinking
calculations for-others, tolled bells tinkle hours
One foot after another
lines march forward through time
pile up bodies of stanzas
with verses and rhyme
Make poems, not war.
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