JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

What could be worse

than blank verse

for a bard with rhyme and rhythm in his veins

what could be more exasperating

infuriating

than to scribble-scrabble on forever

about dandelions or drains,

the weather (which isn’t getting better)

scriptures, strictures and structures

without even a single sonnet for your pains

 

We’ve written our ‘eads off

at workshops

and forgotten to collect ourselves when leaving

got home sans keys or keywords

all sestina’d out and grieving

substituting f-words for e-words

all in vain

 

Only to find that we’re back

where we started, almost broken

hearted, with a pile of empty phrases

for our troubles

feeling absolutely clueless

why we let that workshop fool us

rhyme schemes bursting in our faces

popped soap bubbles

 

Perhaps we should have stuck to prose

and dither over that – who knows?