It’s not meant to be
Intellectual nor complex
But maybe profound in its
I write prose so that you, dear reader,
So that you, might come to understand me,
Not wrinkle up your nose,
And wonder what the hell I meant.
I write to reach you,
Not for you to slam the book shut
And move on wondering,
Or worse, move on and forget.
Oh, how many of the great classics have I thrown with blind rage into a dark corner,
Never to be picked up again.
Or not until, at least, my nerves calmed down.
That’s what’s wrong with
The old poets of yesterday.
And those who write as though writing is merely a game of solitaire, for them to enjoy alone, while the reader scrambles to piece together what is meant.
I wonder, were they and are they still just trying to pull a fast one over on all of us?
From their graves,
With their great intellect and conceit, still intact.
Was it all a game?
Because I have often felt at a loss.
Bewitched by those great poets, who are, it appears, much, much smarter than I.