Poems always baffled me.

To rhyme or not to rhyme

Just some or all of the time?

Or in the middle of a line? I couldnโ€™t clock

The way the fickle lines just stop

But then

Out the caverns of my prosaic mind

Lines snapped, mixed, fell out like fortune sticks


They spoke in patterns, mosaic mastered

Tasted good with emotions 

And with wine

A paragraph falls through

Turns to a haiku

Cliffhanger clinches to a couplet

Looks suspiciously like a sonnet…

Darn it.

That was last Tuesday,

So I guess I write poetry now.