He nudged me in my sleep last night.
He whispered, lowly, that I might
See if I could rhyme another way,
Instead of keeping my stanzas so tight.

Lightly he whispered in my ear to say
You aren't locked into any certain way
Of forming a poem's structure, and meter.
There are many kinds and the future's laid.

I awoke in a cold sweat, chills and a fever.
Looking about for Frost, my poetic leader;
Rubbing my eyes, I couldn't find him.
On the brink of lunancy I began to teeter.

In my pool of cold sweat, I began to swim.
Had ol' Robert come forth from my personal whim.
Or was it just about an old dead white man?
For chances of re-birth are mighty slim.

Soon I realized if I could just rise and stand
On my mentor's shoulders and see my poetic land.
I would see he was right and true after all.
And my poetry would be enhanced; not so bland.

And keeping with my teacher's poetic dance
Were ways to rhyme and not just by chance.
All need be done was to use the pen as a lance
And strike forth across my wide poetic manse.

03/22/2005

Posted on 03/22/2005
Copyright © 2025 Charlie Morgan