The poet is a stray who wanders not
Too far away, perhaps beyond some rise
That often hides the whispered questions asked
When no one else is near to hear: the fears
And loves that tangle ‘round our herded lives,
The unsung songs that long to find a home,
Or just a feeling left too long alone
And clouded in the dusty days of life.
An iambic lamb wrapped in wrangled words
Who’s tugged both back into the herd and pulled
Away toward tempting tunes, forever trapped
between society and solitude.
Or, maybe poets aren’t the hapless strays;
Perhaps they wrestle words to dusty ground.
Poets cast their lines into the air
Hoping to rope and tie chaotic calves.
Armed with skill at times (perhaps some luck),
They secure their braided cord to sturdy steeds
Then leap and dig their heels into the earth
To follow quavering lines down to the source.
Of course, if you are cursed with writing verse,
You may be neither the cowboy nor the stray,
But living within the lines of endless rhyme.
You are the tension tied between the source
Of swirling chaos and tenacious truth,
Trying not to fray and finally snap.
This poem was inspired by a Facebook post from Chuck Greenia:
"New Years Resolution: To become an expert in both cattle roping and iambic pentameter, in the hope of becoming the Poet Lariat."