I think poems are better in rhyme
With meters writ in perfect time
While syllables in harmony fly
The art of poetry will never die
Lacking rhyme
Missing meter
Just 'cause I'm
Too hip for either
george, you liar
that's not true
your poem rhymes
and so do you :wink:
I'm just not hip
I'm outta step
Haven't been hip
Since it was hep
Yer a official spontaneous pomer now, george
cause everthang you wrote is real zorch
lol
Spontaneous pomers contribute wyle
To the growing spontaneous pomers pyle
[Nice view from my window. Very light scattered snow falling.]
Powder, sugar snow
Earth is French toast morning pica
stay
until
I've had enough
then go
Cinnethesia is a poet
don't you know it?
I'm not that spontaneous,
leaning on extraneous.
But I betray my professors,
Walt Whitman, and confessors,
For a hundred years,
despite the way Hallmark appears,
poetry has lacked rhyme.
Oh well...
Guess it's not a crime.
The brook keeps a low profile,
slinking down the gully by the graveyard
and ducking through the culvert
under Montvale Ave.
It knows its place and keeps it,
humble and rather wary.
No splashing and sparkling
over stones in the sunlight.
I'd like to see a deer stopping to drink
or barefoot children wading
instead of the rusty twisted
shopping cart some fool abandoned.
Not all poetry has lacked rhyme for the past hundred years. Without researching, I think of Robert Frost and Ezra Pound. There are many, many poets who rhyme even today.
snowy country sides should be
an artistic portrait
all that glitters is not gold
deep frozen furrows of white stuff
slippery soaked in the cold
mushy wet pant legs
boots piled at the door
stray coats and damp mittens
scattered on the floor
rosy cheeks on children
cars sliding round the bend
I can do without winter
and it's cold knife wind
Hi, colorbook. I like it and thanks for getting us back on track.
(For those pounded by the recent snow)
I laugh at you
and stomp my feet
like a North Korean dictator
groundhog aforethought
crocus-choker
I am winter
still
I roar
"I'd as soon write free verse as play tennis with the net down"
~Robert Frost
That previous is in reply to Edgar's earlier observation re Frost and Pound.
Almost thought that was a comment about my nonmetrical rhythm.
the leaf is green
in spite of late winter gloom
the crack in the sky
is where sun is eating through
robins of east texas
will leave with the morning dew
mockingbirds return
all is normal and true
off the top of my head
aint that how ya do it?
not much to say
just thought i'd add to it.
ps. beautiful poem, George.
