“Poetry, All He Ever Knew”
By Mac
The old poet spends each evening Sitting on the front porch swing Swaying gently to and fro Constant rhythmic motion Followed by brief pauses As if composing one last poem His hands crippled by arthritis Curvature of the spine Limiting what he can do His speech diminished By frequent strokes They say he was famous once Published several books But he out lasted the fame Not that it mattered to him Poetry, all he ever knew Back and forth to a count of ten Iambic pentameter of course Perfect in meter form Brief pause at each line break Line by line he swings Longer pause at a stanza Quatrain I do believe Followed by another And yet another Stanzas so far are three The pattern changes slightly The last lines count but two A couplet if not mistaken Shakespearean in nature The sonnet written by a swing Poetry, all he ever knew Written October 4th, 2001 © on Oct 04 2001 12:26 PM PST, RD McManes 0 • 10
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"The old poet spends each evening..."