Poems have no bounds

From setting sun to high sea

That is why I'm free.

 

Freedom from strict rules

Freedom from Conformity

Freedom's not for fools.

 

Poetry's Science

Of not just rhythm and rhyme

Nor a waste of time.

 

Haiku are nifty

But don't misinterpret me

Poet's style is key

 

 

Sonnets to ballads

Odes through Epics and Free Verse

But now I digress.

 

You, me, Poetry

What an interesting theme

Here I go...rhyme scheme.

 

Free, Fi, Fro and From

Ask not where the poems come.

Ask not why the pen does write,

Ask not when under candle light.

Ask not what the words do mean,

Ask not if the writer’s keen.

Ask not how the lines do rhyme,

For this is the Poet’s Crime.

 

My Paintings were Poor

And my Photos fell flat

My Novels did bore

And my Acting went splat.

My music was bland

And my playing was painful.

My dancing was remand

And my sculpting was at best pitiful

The only Art I excelled

As seen through my eye.

Was to make words meld

From the scenes of the earth and sky

Now I am not saying “I’m great,”

I’m nowhere near that goal.

But I do wish to litigate

And jump that pole.

 

I’m currently studying to be an attorney

And practice in New York and New Jersey.

 

 

So when did I first become a poet?

I guess it was around 7th grade

When first I was assigned it

A poem about me without aide.

Not an easy thing to do

But with a little time and an old typewriter

I made a breakthrough

After pulling an all-nighter

With poem called “Do you Know me?”

A mix of Seuss and Shakespeare

And read like Dead Sea debris.

A little something that might hurt to hear.

 

From there, my subject matter grew

“No Free Ride,” “Bass Fishing” and more

To the stars I gave a thank you

Odes about the rain to tales of folklore

I dabbled in history

The Red Baron to the “Silent Warehouse”

Ballads of liberty and honor, not regret or misery.

I have laid down about to drowse

But awakened by ideas, concepts, rhymes and riddles

Flushing through my mind

Like bows across old country fiddles.

The Muse is not kind

To let me keep my previous thoughts

So forced I am to record

For fear of memory knots

And lose ground explored.

 

Of the multitude of styles I used

The Epic was by far my ultimate task.

An Invocation I was bemused

My frustration I had to mask.

Homer and Dante lit the way

But none as helpful as Milton’s “fall.”

A theme not too removed nor too cliché

A man’s climb from his own end’s thrall.

Now it’s not complete

Only a few chapters to go

But my mind is deplete

My thoughts are at a status quo.

 

But let’s not get off track

So what is poetry to me?

 

Poetry is a Napoleon cognac

Odists turning puddle into the sea

Every word is worth its weight

There are no equals

Romans, Greeks and others of late

Yet why must we record virtues and evils

 

I know the poet’s vice

Study, practice and write...a costly price

 

Looking for meaning

In every little thing

From the end back to the beginning

Even if it’s demeaning.

 

So here is my guilty plea

Poetry has is a piece of me

My body and soul, even at my own chagrin.

This is my poet’s sin.