Array ( [sid] => 184937 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => Flimsy Whimsy [time] => 2018-03-12 22:14:37 [hometext] => I poke enormous fun at myself....it began as a spark of ironic humor, then morphed into a full on fun fest [bodytext] => I think back to a time when I poeted young.
If I couldn/'/t rhyme twice in a line it was crumbled and flung.
Wooing Iambic pentameter as mistress I sought to caress,
mimicking masters, penning dull shadows others brilliant success.
Then years became hills in youth that were flat,
and tears now mine in cheeked rivulets flowed,
though when other eyes cried I saw weakness real men stow.
Oh, those yondering years, foolish youth I,
padded and penned, I hopped on with a cry;
scrambling from steerage to luxury on the poetry train,
using words like swords I slashed demons naively believing mine slain.
Back then, with my dewy still virginal pen, I forced hinges to hang on my every damn word,
birthing not quite a poem, more ink in a pour, a sad scream to be heard.
But now when I write, those conquered words fight,
jousting to lay down for me and delightfully purr;
Yes, yes, being a maestro, humble master of ink,
I cringe an /'/Invierno/'/ could end on a newbie-like rhyme,
because, after all, no novice can languish atop Poetry Hill;
a summit of air so rare each breath a thrill, so worth the climb.

[comments] => 4 [counter] => 114 [topic] => 7 [informant] => invierno [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => HumorPoetry ) Your Poetry Dot Com - Flimsy Whimsy


Flimsy Whimsy
Date: Monday, 12th March 2018 @ 10:14:37 PM AEST
Topic: Sad Poetry

Contributed By: invierno
I think back to a time when I poeted young.
If I couldn/'/t rhyme twice in a line it was crumbled and flung.
Wooing Iambic pentameter as mistress I sought to caress,
mimicking masters, penning dull shadows others brilliant success.
Then years became hills in youth that were flat,
and tears now mine in cheeked rivulets flowed,
though when other eyes cried I saw weakness real men stow.
Oh, those yondering years, foolish youth I,
padded and penned, I hopped on with a cry;
scrambling from steerage to luxury on the poetry train,
using words like swords I slashed demons naively believing mine slain.
Back then, with my dewy still virginal pen, I forced hinges to hang on my every damn word,
birthing not quite a poem, more ink in a pour, a sad scream to be heard.
But now when I write, those conquered words fight,
jousting to lay down for me and delightfully purr;
Yes, yes, being a maestro, humble master of ink,
I cringe an /'/Invierno/'/ could end on a newbie-like rhyme,
because, after all, no novice can languish atop Poetry Hill;
a summit of air so rare each breath a thrill, so worth the climb.



This poem is Copyright © invierno


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