Poem for April's Fool

 

 

Meridith, the muse that thrives in the gardens of poetry

Calls away Angst, an old poet master, from slipping into silence

As he meditates into the deep seas of ubiquity.

 

“Speak poet - hold not your heart in reticence

For the waltzing shadows of time frighten the white rabbit

Back into its black hole of imaginary nonsense!”

 

“I will speak when the common guard of habit

Ceases to hail the weird cats of uniformity

And all haikus taken explain the meanings of the Abbot.

 

For all questions are fashioned in the reply of simplicity;

And therefore, we all are sentenced to our words,

To our songs. Remember, April’s poetry is not for the sake of complexity.

 

Instead, verse is within the implications of the red roses or the bloody swords!

All submissions are Moloch’s choice to either embrangle or to liberate

From utter irrelevancy or held to be supreme lords.”

 

After some weigh, Meredith mused whether the poet would abnegate:

“Poet, of old, would you rather slip away in a silent refrain

Rather than answer the paroxysms of rejection and love’s desquamate?”

 

“’Tis not my journey to find joy nor to abstain from pain.

No, indeed, it is because of my fascination with the fulcrum’s sway

Between refinement of pleasures and the perils of fame

 

My songs are lyrical rhymes; my morphemes formed in a simple way

Explaining how the kinesthetics of the mind capture the universe

When it speaks to the mind – it is a desideratum’s journey, every day.