If I were a poet, I’d write more poetry.
Well, I’m not, and I’d hate to
write verse with symmetry,
as the distant cousin of prose was made to
be simply confounding
and utterly meaningless,
with few words resounding,
after mess of wordy disasters
made sappy and long-winded
by teens, tweens, and other poetry “masters”.
I will not rescind it,
my unbiased opinion of that horrid thing
deemed poetry by some, and by others, trash.
Of complainers, I’m king,
for which I am proud and others call me brash.
My reasons are as follows,
in no particular order,
for why poetry should be sent to the gallows,
or, if preferred, drawn and quartered:
For years since the invention of paper,
as the Chinese evidently pioneered,
we’ve seen acceptable rhyming taper
into something that has veered? been feared? at which people have jeered?
Anyway, something that allows rhyming “to” with “to”
as I did in the first four lines of this poem.
And, as most people would do,
poets in modern times have taken it upon themselves to completely abandon rhyming, rhythm, and symmetry altogether, opting instead for long bits of prose, falsely presented to the public as poetry. Unfortunately for those of us that occasionally enjoy a good read, such “poetry” is not. Although that sort has been rid of the extra baggage that rhyming, rhythm, and symmetry have added to poetry, it still carries the weight of a feather floating on the breezes of time, with an orange jacket tucked into the corner of the universe itself, like the gentle kiss of morning’s dew on the earth in the autumn leaves.