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A sestina can include everything, even the kitchen sink.

(After all, Bishops had a grandmothers stove.) I think

to be different, Ill even make this one rhyme,

which makes it more of a challenge, but Ive got the time,

and each stanza will a have a new scheme anyway;

I just hope the narrative wont fall in disarray.

I could make this a poem about my brother Ray,

but thats a lie I have no brother Ray. Would I sink

to fabricate a story, to stretch my credence any way

I could? If I plied you with tall tales, what would you think

of me? Fiction often has the luxury of time;

the older, the more removed from reasoned rhyme.

And what about this form? Like the Rime

of the Ancient Mariner, could it be an albatross, arrayed

around my neck, a burden for all time?

Would I be bogged down with words, and begin to sink

into a quicksand of lockstepped verse? Id like to think

myself a master of the pen, plowing awkward from my way.

And what of rhythm? Dare I bend the beat any way

I want,  invoke iambic, dancing up to every rhyme?

Sometimes the thing takes on a shape, doesnt care what you think,

becomes vampiric, sucks creative juices, avoids rays

of morning and the wood stakes of closure, till it sinks

into the coffin of your dresser drawer, waiting for a better time.

There, wasnt that a good metaphor? Ive got no time

for a poem without one. And yet, they never should weigh

the whole piece down, heavy-handed hyperbole to sink

your ship that plies the sea of creativity, whitecaps of rhyme,

or even worse, the critics, bloodthirsty blackguards on a pirate raid

to your integrity. Ah well, who really worries what they think?

Then I wonder: if not a poet, what would I be? Some liberal in a think-

tank, or a master chef, whipping up a specialty, chopping thyme

and rosemary? Or a sports hero, making the winning score, hearing Hooray!

ring in his ears? This has become a ramble; the poem has lost its way.

I see an envoi in our future, and some closing lines of rhyme.

And after six verses I still havent worked in a kitchen sink.

I think Ill have to cash in anyway.

I no longer have either time or rhyme.

Ill call my sister Desirée and wash up in the sink.

05/06/2004

Posted on 05/06/2004
Copyright © 2026 Bruce W Niedt