Teeming with errs
Their egos agin
They took their best shot
Sow prod of themselves
In citing
Your poetry makes no cents
As if
The golf between us
As driven in sanity
From goad above
Rather demanding
A stroke of genius
Wringing hollow
In a tin cup
That fateful hole in won
In things looking up
And people looking down
At storied little balls
And exclusive clubs
Beating with in
No bogey men hear
The par will always be with us
Not sow stuck on the short game
Put on buy the green
Razing polls and flags
To victory
Only to wind up
Being
In side job
As aww some coinage
Of mine a loan
Tempting too undue
Being so much as a cad he
And he he he
Left behind with scratch
Knot even ahead
This is a poet’s poem. This poem has one of those bonus titular words, adumbrate, which means foreshadow. I must confess, as highly alliterate as I am, I only discovered this word in the thoroughs of my joyous addiction to Thesaurus.com. In due course, the title begs “a dumb rating my too sense,” as standing speechless is an awe-too-common response to reading (or trying to read) my poetry. This poem dismisses the gulf between making cents, buy tailoring and valuing a poem by its popular, a peel, rather than glorying in singular glimpses of awe that can be mined in a fantastical mountain of meaning. My poetry is not for the feign of heart or to revel as IQ smarts. As most beauty in this universe is never experienced by humans, as we pass up the illustriously novel for the merely comical, I stand in solidarity with the better share of the universe. Sow it shall be ridden, commanded by fire that does not burn, in stone that knows how to roll.
