A POETIC RECIPE

 

 

                      Golden dawn breaks, I hear the silence play

                       The poetry within me, heralds the new day,

                     I hear those lyrics in the quiet of my mind,

                      Whispering memories, escaping, unconfined,

                      Myriads of words will not stay locked inside,

                   The need to find an audience, cannot be denied.

                                                                     

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                            I am no true poet, in reality I know,

                      I can only hope, that you may think it so.

                           Of poetry ethics, I have no clue,

                          As I rhyme goodbye with how do you do,

                         A bouncing rhythm, words that rhyme,

                       The beat and the tempo, I keep them in time.

 

                             

                               You will find no poetic proficiency,

                               For I have but a rhyming efficiency,

                           The limerick, the sonnet, what are they?

                             I wonder, I ponder, oh! bitter dismay,

                                 Fourteen lines, be it near or far?

                           Iambic pentameter, five beats to the bar.

                                                      

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                            I am no Wordsworth, Keats or Burns,

                         My dancing daffodils are but dead ferns,

                            Limerick, sonnet or nursery rhyme,

                         My own unique recipe, this poetry mine,

                           No teacher taught me, I did but guess,

                               Would I be a poet?  More or less.             

 

                                   Copyright  Carole Johnson - Feb. 1992​

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