Oh, what a beautiful letter
my such a wondrous word
herein pentameter iambic,
'tis e'er the best I've heard!
Poems
I'm an idiot sans the savant,
a sour lolly without any pop
an ice-cream missing a cone
dog who can't find his bones
I'm on rhythm losing to blue,
a bad carrot stirred up in pea
silver linings clouded by rain
and all disable candied canes
A poem a day keeps the doctor away
but a mortician's simply not an M.D.,
and the mortality rate for poet speak
spirals out far as the orbital shall see
Why does a poet pen rhymes?
Because the lexeme 'tis there!
Each passion and pain,
like dark clouds in rain
'tis timings daily living
'Pon humans well lived
every question thy give
'tis nice at being giving
I'm creating poems and I know
penning 'tis a worthy endeavor
'cause my father liked his verse
and he would say inking rhyme
'tis a very esteemed thing to do
It's okay 'tis what I say,
as I'm loved and loving
Groveling at the edge of something's not quite right,
'pon some weak wormhole's blurry liquid inner space
lives a bi-polar explorer's regretful lack of pitiful grit
frostbitten to a glowing ice igloo's warm admirations
By some godlessly globing miracles,
I'm 'pon earth now loved and loving
If I think my father would've liked the poem,
then I certainly know the poem's quite good!
In the here and now of a witnessing conscience
lies most grand empowerment of choosing well
and winning critiques of each worthwhile artist
reveal character's strengths most obvious to tell
I offer only the affections of my poems
you kindly reward me with bleak bone
I lay in warm reflection of heart stones
and feel joy for good gift of being home
