Henry James writes a Portrait of words
Twain sprinkles Sly with a tongue-caressed cheek
Hawthorne's allegory spins heads through and through
And Shakespeare melts pages with floral Sonnet

Whitman hears singing
Hughes Hums sorrow
And Eliot begs for Escape

But I have nothing, save straightforward lines
and Observations too lush not to make

I try to imitate what I don't understand
and make a Fool of the scape

Rhyme seems forbidden, cliché and a sin
But I'm tired of denying its place.

There is no room for blank space
In the brain of a worn word artisan.

03/25/2008