Thursday, December 19, 2013


       Once upon a rhyme, the story goes,
       A poet sitting in his bedtime clothes
       Before the early morning sun arose,
       While contemplating in a musing doze,
       Considering what subject to compose,
       Eschewing anything fit just for prose
       And not for lines in aptly metered rows,
       Decided monorhyme might best disclose
       How novel subject matter easily flows
       When rhyme and meter frolic to expose
       Some wondrous vistas and sublime tableaux,
       Although it’s true no polymath could gloze
       How such a feat might be, it surely shows
       There are some cosmic secrets no one knows.