I have a dream I almost dare— to tell
a spell, a tale to share,
binding words into a snare,
but I find there's nothing there.

It was the day of the wedding of Mr and Mrs Epithalamium they looked quite the Heroic Couplet and full of Romanticism until the Englyn  Prose-d the Questionku ‘ Do you take this woman’ …  then in a wavering Iambic Pentameter voice the groom whispered ‘I do not know’ ….Mrs Epithalamium felt quite Dizain and tried to scratch out his Ruba’I, the  Clerihew stepped forward to comfort her but tripped over some Concrete and felt like a right Cowboy. The brides father, the Russian Chastushka, grabbed the groom and with a  Carpe Diem attitude threatened to Choka him.

            The guests all gathered in an Enclosed Rhyme with the best man making quite a Dramatic Monologue, the brides mother had her  Hybronnet knocked off her head and the chief bridesmaid had her Kimo torn in the affray. The young flower girls Haibun and Hamd both burst into tears as their Crown of Sonnets were totally destroyed.

            The Rev. Pantoum pleaded for calm, then repeating his plea for the melee to stop started making a List of the damage, quick as a Ghazal and with great Imagism he protected the Crystalline glass from smashing into Ninette pieces. Meanwhile the poor bride was in a state of Nonet anxiously trying to get past the twins Munaajaat and Musaddas, her Idyll life had been turned upside down, today was the day she had hoped to change her Name to Triolet.

              Alliteration watched while women wept, then stepped forward and with a Lyric in his voice asked people to calm down, he told everyone he had Naat come here to watch a display such as this and suggested they went for a hot Canzone to discuss the next move, Tanka and Tyburn readily agreed as they were very hungry and particularly as it was Free Verse it meant they could eat as much as they wanted. The nearly bride couldn’t give a Sijo if she never saw her ex again she was sick of being Kyrielle to and did not want anyone else’s Epyllion and with a final Than-Bauk stormed out of the club…


© 6/4/2013

My Welsh is just not good enough for verse.
My dw i'n hoffi coffi's lacking fizz;
cynghanedd is pedestrian or worse;
I wish it wasn't so, but there it is.
My struggle's still to learn, as yours to teach,
and so my englyn's still in English sung,
and aching awdls cower out of reach,
and English shows the thinness of the tongue.
But here's my goal: some month the Gorsedd meet
so many miles ahead— I may be there
to share my bitter words, my verses sweet,
at common table. Never mind the chair.
But that's a dream, and not what's on the card,
and much as I might dream— for now— I'm barred.

the city
filled in
the small
pond
in the middle
of my tiny
poem.

all the ducks
came to
my door
and complained
i am
simple
i agree
in the meekest
of language.

that they
have been
unhomed.

it is
my duty
they tell
me as a poet
to open
the  door
of my
small poem
and let
them swim
in my bathtub.

i agree
it is tough
to be unhomed
there should
be plenty of room
in my weensy poem
for such
a small flock
of fluffy ducks.

the  periods
are silent
because
they must know
something.


the ducks
fill up my
bathtub
as they quack
double sestina
to the pond
that has been
filled  by those
unfeeling humans!

it is
hard to work
in such cacophony
such repetitive
quacking repetition
words
like floating wood
float to the surface
of my eye-ear
in spades.

often i type
my meager haikus
on my typewriter
with missing
chrome keys:

typewriter  chrome keys flutter cure
clear water within  pond flows pure
ducks like ink letters rise into line.


no
says my
inward-sparrow:
“that is an englyn milwr
not   a haiku”


bless
you sparrow
i tried again:

typewriter keys clatter
rises like letters in moonlight
ducks swim on round poem.

Then the tiny bell
vibes
as my typewriter
comes to the margins
and quacking subsides.  

The ducks come
to my study
and complain
that my typing
is quite distracting
to their
swimming.

The periods
can only  chuckle
like crickets.