“For My Friend, William!”
Oh, William, others now have ‘attitude’.
Your sonnets broken into Flarf and sent.
The Moderns make more humble pie of you
and some do call your ‘summer’s day’ a vent!
Oh, William, where must soulful poet step:
avoidance of all passion voids true love!
They know not of pentameter, those shleps!
Or how to rhyme expectant like the dove.
Now, rhyme, they say, a harried gambler’s chance.
Throw words, wired, juxtaposed into the air.
The heart, then, not conditioned for romance.
Egalitarian, all poet’s share.
“There’s nothing new beneath the sun”, they squawk.
As each write through the other like a hawk.
(I could not resist. Yesterday’s mention of “Flarf” led me to write the above.)