Curtis Prevo

If I were a poet…

Posted by in Poetry/Songwriting

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,
leaving mess
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.


Bad poet

Posted by in Laughter, Poetry/Songwriting

In the spirit of wonderfully bad poetry introduced in Robby’s blog, I shall now attempt to make all English majors’ eyes bleed with my horrid writing.


I sit in the computer lab
thinking that my life is fab.
All the while I hit “tab” on my keyboard.
My life is actually drab, and I’m bored.

The white cinder block walls stare at me.
(They must have eyes, but I can’t tell because they are completely white, as cinder blocks are supposed to be.)
The lights are too bright, but I can change that.
There’s this thingy on the desk that can change that.

My computer monitor on the right is the wrong resolution,
making my eyes wander in revolutions.
But my shift is almost over,
making me more lucky than if I had gone out into the field behind the gym and found myself a green four-leaf clover.