I too, am confused by the literary form

So undefined

A running of the mouth

without speaking, now that’s refined

 

Poetry, maybe there are things more important

And sometimes I read it in scorn

But then something overcomes me

and I find myself reborn

 

It seems so genuine

In a haphazard sort of way

Unless the poet is some kind of syllabic perfectionist

which to me, is a strange way to play

 

But I have done the 5-7-5-6 kind of thing

And yes, it was an adventure

A symbol of potential orderliness

along with a specific indenture

 

Some, I must say is unintelligible

I ask, a product of brilliance or fear

Spending hours extrapolating

looking for what might be clear

 

Buy yeah… this is not the purpose

It’s an exercise in creativity and wake-up dreams

Turning and twisting

in its emotional scheme

 

The metaphorical imagination

That hanging bat

A plethora of geese

or that hilarious fall known as a prat

 

It’s all a story

Brushed with, sadness, anger, maybe even hate

Or feminism

sometimes in a tone irate

 

And once and a while

There is celebration and praise

For life’s revolving miracles

amidst these rondomatic days