At times I write and poetry absconds,

Light lilting lines that long to wander free;

The pen proclaims its phrases must belong

Unto some heavy hackneyed harmony.

While paltry poets daub their verse as prose,

Like children scrawling past their measured line,

The crux of any cogent ode composed

Is keeping rhyme where form and sense entwine.

This is the timeless challenge of the bard

To have his rune perform as patterned dance

Where every chosen word in that regard,

Through artistry, does imagery enhance.

But let me pose…a thought is still a thought,

Though writ by fools, and when it rhymeth not!