Category Archives: Poetic flux
Sixes and Sevens

After sextuplets come septuplets
Inconceivably set-uplets . . .
Long hard nights of Mom-kept-uplets
Sevenfold fruit of busy couplets.

PROMPT 25
write a poem suited to, or written for, a particular occasion.
The poem can be for an occasion in the past or the future,
one important to you and your family (a wedding, a birth).
Used Poems
To a Progressive Poet
Your poems read as staggered prose;
the rhythm of the words escapes you.
One assumes, un-mused, you chose
a free-verse prison to run into.
You are modern. And it shows
in lack of structure, meter, beat.
Your emperor, set free of clothes
meanders on unsteady feet
exposed as naked, fending blows
from anarch subjects bored to tears
by cryptic, existential woes
and dreary imagery. One hears
within the verbiage you compose
a load of godless free-form tripe.
The lyrical ebb achieves new lows;
the scent is somewhat over-ripe . . .
Bitter Poetaste in Mouth
Lightweight free-verse exploration,
withered ghosts and wisps of phrase,
breezy unamusing musings
barely raise
a titter, tear or lyric warning –
fail to reach a middling height;
then subside to shallow murmurs
(not quite).
Teenage existentialism
cryptic, dull confessional mush;
suitable for a poker-faced
unroyal flush.
Must you set this stuff in motion
fizzling through our universe:
half-bright comets leaving trails
of boring verse?
Incoherent thoughts meander
through your words like fish through nets
unable to ensnare your reader.
One forgets
whatever it was you started saying
(weirdly spaced, unpunctuated).
Could it be such thoughts are better
left unstated?
Welsh Revival
Dylan Thomas, drunk-ass poet,
uncorked nouns, imbibed the verb;
downed six pints and thought about it
sitting unsteadily on the curb.
Winds of word unleashed in drink
filled up to the full the poet’s sails . . .
although it tottered on the brink,
his drunken boat defied the gales.
Floating on wreckage to distant shores,
our boozy bard beheld the deep;
where whales spout forth their lyric stores
while the inebriate muses weep.
This postwar lush and lyrical fad,
was the biggest pint in the bar called Wales.
While not the worst, his verse was bad…
(but better after seven ales).
