(A Love Letter to Poets Rising)
Why must I write?
Lest I’m contrite.
Without my writing,
Sadness, sulking and crying.
Every attempt to speak,
My ideas fail to peak,
Words merely a jumble,
Verbal slips, falls; idealess mumble.
Listening to biting criticism,
Of my own colloquialism.
I wander home depressed,
Mourning words I missed.
Use the colon : here,
Semi-colon ; there,
Use of comma , fears,
Wordsters trading jeers!
Express those great ideas.
Using common sense principles,
Colleagues pout “dangling participles.”
A stab at being definitive,
Critics shout, “Misplaced modifier! Split infinitive!”
Editor’s red pen is deadly; humbling,
Can’t argue with keen reasoning,
Lament corrected work they’re returning,
Transformed into battlefield remains,
In a sea of blood red ink stains.
Forget about that stubborn meter,
Don’t worry ’bout that bloody rhyme,
Written words flow like aged wine,
Poetic license assessed a huge fine,
Some are guilty of writing crime?
May we now be brutally honest?
Constructive criticism we quest,
New prosetry put to the test,
We must present our very best,
Finished work, without protest.
Our Poets Rising fills the bill,
Attempt to hone our writing skills,
Without incurring massive bills,
Creative writing that fulfills.
Pen that great work that kills!
The poem is part of a writing project organized by the Poets Rising group that meets monthly at the Hampton Bays Library — Ed.
One fine body…