this poem ain’t no haiku or senyru
or sonnet or song. it’s not long enough
to sustain sestina status, or sex
-tet its way to anything more than
smudge. it cannot budge a blackout,
blitz or bop and stoppeth short of
ode. it won’t explode to elegy or
epitaph. don’t laugh, but it also
cannot tell a fib or lai, or bust a rib
with limerick wit. no pantoum, no pal
-indrome, no friend of frenzy found.
this poem shall not abound to
sevenling nor ovillejo swing. (it might list
slightly to the left, or echo lightly.)
show it no dizain; it is no villan
-elle. just a few meandering lines
with no real story to tell.
In November, we poem. Usually not in form.