Fecund Muse
Conceiving a poetic strain,
her forceps waken me from sleep
till germinal impressions peep
as fancies which, like novocaine,
augments the threshold of my pain.
Thus I breed sonnets in her keep.
They count my syllables like sheep,
and feed upon my teeming brain
whose metric measures are their bed.
They doff a crumpled dressing gown
for metaphors my verses spread
around them like an eiderdown.
Indelible on sheets I fled,
they mock their weary father’s frown.
Accomplice
I hear an inner voice
compose a line or two
till, feeling I’ve no choice,
I add another few.
These bolster the conceit
that’s mesmerizing me
to walk on metric feet
in rapt captivity.
And thus I serve my time,
constrained by metaphor,
pentameter and rhyme
to finish what I swore
I wouldn’t start again
till locked inside my pen.
Spinning My Wheels
How cunningly she took me in
by dressing up in simile
the daydream taken for a spin
by my creative fantasy.
I felt imagination soar
while pumping gas inside my tank.
And with a revved up metaphor
I quickly got the mountebank
across the bridge that spans my brain
into the sleazy part of town.
With literate legerdemain
she bilked each adjective and noun,
and then with pentatonic feet
she ran away with my conceit.
Writing Shape
As poet, I’m much better when the roar
erupts inside my germinating brain.
I clinch when I get hit, use metaphor
like padded gloves to mitigate the pain
of dealing with a flurry of ideas
that land with combinations from my pen.
Historical conceits are panaceas
for the cuts I suffer when I’m going ten
with fantasies I can’t backpedal from.
But otherwise I lean against the ropes
when some unseemly image sticks a thumb
inside my eye. Then I envision tropes
that cushion me from blows before the belle
of fancy. Thus I write my villanelle.
Web Support
Pardon me for savoring my laptop’s
responsiveness to your persuasive hands.
But being weaned on lesser moms’ and pops’
abortive ministrations and commands
my net connection’s naughtiness became
a childish game. And though my manly pride
obliged my passive tendency with shame
to get my internet hooked up astride
exquisite shoulders, riding on your skill
seemed best. Though my PC played hide and seek
with surrogates, your firm, no-nonsense will
transformed its rowdy system to a meek
appendage of authoritative arms.
Thus I rejoice in your arresting charms.
Conceiving a poetic strain,
her forceps waken me from sleep
till germinal impressions peep
as fancies which, like novocaine,
augments the threshold of my pain.
Thus I breed sonnets in her keep.
They count my syllables like sheep,
and feed upon my teeming brain
whose metric measures are their bed.
They doff a crumpled dressing gown
for metaphors my verses spread
around them like an eiderdown.
Indelible on sheets I fled,
they mock their weary father’s frown.
Accomplice
I hear an inner voice
compose a line or two
till, feeling I’ve no choice,
I add another few.
These bolster the conceit
that’s mesmerizing me
to walk on metric feet
in rapt captivity.
And thus I serve my time,
constrained by metaphor,
pentameter and rhyme
to finish what I swore
I wouldn’t start again
till locked inside my pen.
Spinning My Wheels
How cunningly she took me in
by dressing up in simile
the daydream taken for a spin
by my creative fantasy.
I felt imagination soar
while pumping gas inside my tank.
And with a revved up metaphor
I quickly got the mountebank
across the bridge that spans my brain
into the sleazy part of town.
With literate legerdemain
she bilked each adjective and noun,
and then with pentatonic feet
she ran away with my conceit.
Writing Shape
As poet, I’m much better when the roar
erupts inside my germinating brain.
I clinch when I get hit, use metaphor
like padded gloves to mitigate the pain
of dealing with a flurry of ideas
that land with combinations from my pen.
Historical conceits are panaceas
for the cuts I suffer when I’m going ten
with fantasies I can’t backpedal from.
But otherwise I lean against the ropes
when some unseemly image sticks a thumb
inside my eye. Then I envision tropes
that cushion me from blows before the belle
of fancy. Thus I write my villanelle.
Web Support
Pardon me for savoring my laptop’s
responsiveness to your persuasive hands.
But being weaned on lesser moms’ and pops’
abortive ministrations and commands
my net connection’s naughtiness became
a childish game. And though my manly pride
obliged my passive tendency with shame
to get my internet hooked up astride
exquisite shoulders, riding on your skill
seemed best. Though my PC played hide and seek
with surrogates, your firm, no-nonsense will
transformed its rowdy system to a meek
appendage of authoritative arms.
Thus I rejoice in your arresting charms.
