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I am both bemused and amused and will claim confused
If, not also somewhat, decidedly, poetically excused.
When I rhyme with prescribed time of thoughts of mine
Why are there those who chime in with the critic’s line?
Of, “Too much form”, or “Poorly born”, or “You need be warned,”
That they would never conform to that which I’ve poetically adorned.

Every stanza must be just so, so they let me know, how a poem should go
And put up quite a show to lift them up and to leave me low
When, if the truth be known, these so called “know-its”, really show it
Because the old famous poets never subscribed to their “you must do-its!”
Poe’s was not Whitman’s style, and Ogden Nash’s short wiles, fill files
And Tennyson’s “Light Charge,” riles those who hate stanza miles.

So, I choose to lose those who refuse to honor my muse
And excuse those, who through ignorance, ego bruise
With pen in hand, and mind in ink, I think, to link
My imagined brink and write envisioned words in sync
To release this stuff, no matter how tough I am rebuffed
By those who know, just enough to share the critic’s bluff.




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