Verse

In our swiftest moments
there is the rhyme of our souls.
We can alliterate our dreams
or assonate them to be subtle.
Shall we repeat, enjamb and
consonate our lives?
We can flow with our figurative
sea of words.

Give me a song, or a sonnet,
or an ode
that has wings and wants to fly;
make a rondel, triolet, or
villanelle to fill the heart.

Let's have patterns to
our poetry:
couplet, tercet, quatrain,
quintrain, sextain, ottava rima.

Shall it be a Spenserian or
a Chaucerian stanza?

No matter what, let us ponder
the raw materials,
know the emotional
and the musical,
exercise form, meter, imagery.

If prosody is a science,
we are the students of how
extraordinaire it can be--
that magic we call verse.