(a poem of poetic terms)

The days flutter by-to and fro between the rafters.
The assonance of almost silence flutters through.
The bathos of blank verse and the cadence of the wind
swirls in and brings it all together.

This is a dramatic monologue spoke from the gallows
of time. More than just an A- Z of poetic germs-
sorry terms. This is my continuation of words my eye-
rhyme, putting my foot in the form. Unformal versed I verse
free ghazaling into a haiku, folding into an iambiic pentameter.
There are no terms begining with J.

I am just a wheel-chair poet kenning over a line-
break, I almost broke my back. I came too on a metaphor
and almost became a near rhyme. This is my ode my on-
omatopeia a prose poem. There are no terms for the letter Q.

this is my refrain, my soft winged wind thrust into my sestina
and half sestina. I lived every tab sylabled in an overdose.
If you said u were doing a terza rima they would think
you were mad. Theres no terms for the letter U.

Lets just say this is not a villanelle not the one
that escaped with a little bit of sky. There are no terms
for W, X Y and Z and there are no reasons why. Poetry
needs to let out the breath of death and laugh at itself.
its like a stuffed shirt stuffed up a stuffed shirt,
the security guard sees this and whistles on
in the second hand book store, it's buy one get one
free in the bargain bucket.