by sean m. poole

The poet paused

Pen poised in hand

A wrinkle on his brow

He'd but to rhyme the final verse

The only problem



He'd wrote himself into a corner

A tight unyielding place

From which his sole escape relied

On how he played his ace.


He had one up his sleeve, you see,

And was not ashamed to use it

But like any desperate poet man

He was careful not to choose it

Without first considering his options

And rhyming each of those

Hearing how they'd sound

Before on paper he'd compose.


Blue moon in June

A crooning loon

Sang sweetly soft and low

Come hear my dear

Please do not fear

The blackly feathered crow

Though he is dark

And foul of mind

And eye-to-eye you glare

You must not wither

From his gaze

But return his baleful stare.


Then hearken to the trumpets' blare

That sounds from towers high

A wondrous bright uplifting song

Upon whose notes you fly.