a rhyme a rhyme the poet cried
oh oh woe the thesaurus died
I’m lost lost left two syllables
deep just four iambic feet wide
Monthly Archives: September 2017
Four Lines
prodded by memory I stand
transfixed on an old stomping ground—
sixty years later my feet still
recognize this sidewalk’s odd tilt
Four Lines
how many times must a poet
rhyme oranges by changing mid-use
to bananas only to find
no fruit except dried sultanas
Four Lines
a hot day in early autumn
rustles glum among the dry leaves
held hostage by the wheezy squeaks
of a dawdling eastern phoebe
