Once in a while I have to agree with the Papists on something . . .
This slam artist recites a terrific list poem, and I agree 100% !
♗♗♗♗♗♗
Tag Archives: progressive poetry
News of the Muse
This blog gets more views than usual during National Poetry Writing Month.
I enjoy checking other people’s blogs as well. Take a look at them so far.
To participate, you can submit your poetry blog HERE.
I have published 30 original poems every April for the last four years.
I am re-posting some older work during March.
You can read them by clicking on the NaPoWriMo widgets to the right ▶
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 . . .
Sandalistas
You posed yourselves (in radical English)
with fellow-travelers on the barricades.
recalling bygone barrio fusillades
though you speak only red diaper Spanish…
Beholding the party cooperative
where gringo tourists are shown Cuban truth,
you cherished the lies of your leftist youth,
half-informed, predictably progressive.
Stuffed full of radicalized rice and beans,
flatulent, dreaming of ignoble Che
you charmed the sultry proletarian queens.
In your new Guayabera, bonafide,
you hailed the revolutionary day;
pale thorn in the suffering People’s side…
Sandalistas really exist !
There are still a few around…
Some may remember
propagandist Tokyo Rose.
(Write one about her !)
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…
