The page asked and wanted to know
where are my screeds, my verses of to and fro?
The page is not insistent, it doesn't  make demands
The blankness merely beckons you a clever use of  hands

The page ask's are you bashful, timid, scared, or irresolute?
Does my vast emptiness request your feelings be bared?
Oh that's it, isn't it, the heavy hand of truth is what I seek
Such a criterion for a page long is not for  the meek

You can be honest,  its all right with me
Hell I'm not perfect, I'm the remnant of a tree
You can  wax sonnets, or you can  wrap fish,
A blank page is a delight, the poet's ultimate wish

But when rhyming's  a necessity the words take different shape
They conform to the metered scheme of a phonetic gait
Then sound becomes  as important as the meaning of a word
And cadence takes a beating and flies off  like a bird



by: The reluctant rhyming of a laconic lexicon