Obscure Demur

duh DUM DUH dum . . . against a form, this poet is . . .

Obscure Demur

I woke inside iambic verse.
The trees were gone and so much worse—

the sky was dead and gone the sun,
though light still kept the night undone.

I walked upon the Poet’s form,
and hoped to feel a thunderstorm.

But all was still, except a breeze,
which made me feel real ill at ease.

I ran along a metered song,
and thought the beat still somewhat wrong.

Too strong to fit a pretty noun,
until I turned it upside down.

    Music rhythm enters gently,
    thus I protest with this trochee--

and yet . . .



I know you think this poem obscure,
but this is just my mere demur.

It would not be so hard to see
if it could just in verse be free.

It will not be so hard to see
if only just in verse,
                              it's free.

If only just,
                  in verse,
                                  be free,

if only,
            just,
                  whatever,
                                see?