Verse suggested by feedback from a greatly respected poet and friend.
A poet I know with his sweetie in tow
Says I’m master of meter iambic.
That seems like some low, pointed praise, though I know
He meant nothing unkind or pedantic.
So I thought that I’d pen something out of my ken
All a-bursting with trochees and dactyls—
An old clucky hen, backwoods wisdom and zen,
Some algebra proofs, complex fractals—
Might set that man right, make him restless at night,
Counting meter instead of wool sheep
Until — with new sight — he discovers the light
And with peace lays his head down to sleep.
I know I should vary my rhyme dictionary
Whose setting is frozen on “iamb.”
My verses aren’t schmaltz (though these dactyls do waltz!)
I just don’t give that much of a dy-amn.
But I must accede to the fellows who read
My poetical confabulations;
I hope this short piece fin’lly gains me release
From the charge of poetic stagnation.
If not, I‘ll fall back, set myself a new tack
On the ocean of meters and rhymes;
Become a corsair with a bardical flair
Casting round for new lit’rary crimes.
Image generated using DreamStudio
Iamb what I am, what else can I be?
A dactyl? A spondee?
or something more free?
Perhaps stream of conscious?
or something more loose?
a rap or a zap
or a short clerihew?
A flamenco, a fib
or a quick Kyrielle
an ode or a Luc Bat
a Huitain at the well
Just go for it, Jean
c’est à vous! c’est à vous!
the ideas are endless
of what you could do!
Funny and clever.