Meter

measure your words well

wait on the art ‘til

it lines up & rings

invariably, sings

like a bird thru mating

season. Free

form is for amateurs

delete the stanza, start

again when

we rebel we taste

the swell of the words

the music. Behind every

good poet is a rhythm

clear as a church bell

and as spiritual

now is the time to return

to meter. Many experts

or at least those I’ve

read said that most poetry

these days should not

be considered as such

it is messy, unedited

broken prose. Perhaps

there is no worth in

feeling, no spirit

in the stanza. Perhaps

we are asleep, walking

with our words like

zombies through

the night of our times

the difference between

a poet and not is slight

I know which I am, most

days. I lose sight of the music

that illuminates my form

and finds its magic

I’m afraid of the show

that comes of sound

& fury. Instead

I go for the expansiveness

of formlessness, the variable

foot of emotional turmoil

the sensational, teenage

heartbreak of a world

that refuses to speak

for us. So I refuse

to make a statue

out of a stream

a structure

out of the soft

cool springs

of the soul —

Be Open Says;