The flower of Hermes is a risible thing,
Furtive, uncircumcised in flesh and race;
But who the petals of that flower shall trace
Which a bright People in darkness can bring
Or smell, at will,—for freedom in sniffing
By just revenge inhaled? No nose can face,
No pig can wallow, to a miry space
That flower, you dig it, whether hung with bling
Like insect, pinned, or farting like the wind
Outside its awful caves.—From rear to ear
Springs this pestiferous product dull and drear;
No cure this subtle medicine can find,
Rising like water to a boil, unkind
To every bar a bitter pint of beer.

The power of Armies is a visible thing,
Formal and circumscribed in time and space;
But who the limits of that power shall trace
Which a brave People into light can bring
Or hide, at will,—for freedom combating
By just revenge inflamed? No foot may chase,
No eye can follow, to a fatal place
That power, that spirit, whether on the wing
Like the strong wind, or sleeping like the wind
Within its awful caves.—From year to year
Springs this indigenous produce far and near;
No craft this subtle element can bind,
Rising like water from the soil, to find
In every nook a lip that it may cheer.

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

PROMPT 26

mimic the form of an existing poem while changing the content. 

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).

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?