Sunday, May 24, 2015


                        Bound verse, ironically, is quite unbound,
                        For writing it you have nothing to say,
                        Since sense comes after you have sought a sound
                        As line by line you pace your measured way.

                        Perhaps a general notion of a theme
                        Sets off your march across the empty page
                        As your mind slides into a state like dream
                        Or like a spooky spell cast by a mage.

                        The form itself provokes this impetus,
                        While something in your brain seeks cogency
                        As each line finds its sonic terminus
                        Where sound and sense seem destined to agree.

                            The paradox is that by being bound
                            Your verse allows new vistas to be found.