Free Verse

A plague upon this gardening of words

the predication of lines onto a hedge of form,

of would-be farmers with their stolid stock-in-trade.


I’d rather, in a kind of remish sleep, have fantasies

of wild, imperfect, but fallow fields,

of fertile thoughts that bloom in abstract shapes,

and fly, like seeds, as if with wings, with syncopated

unyielding beat, to an other, alien, world or place.


But like some Johnny-come-lately Apple Seed

I’d bag all the words that still remain,

then shaking once, would sow them wide and near

to grow like weed on mountainside.

Thus free, I’d cut, with dithyrambic shears

the topiary chains of literary fears.