this poem is not about love
or plums
or counting ways
or red red roses
(or wheelbarrows).
it’s too staccato for a sonnet
and refuses to put on a
fetching bonnet or a corset
or a fine feathered
hat. (take that, Miss Austen.)
it’s got no sense
nor sensibility,
no pride nor
prejudice (except today it
hates quatrains). but it might
wax forth adoring of the rain,
if you give it
an umbrella and
order ala
-(m)ode.
this poem is giving the cold
shoulder to the Bard
and finding it much too hard
to follow Browning or Eliot,
Cummings or Keats.
it’s completely
free
of sentiment, steeped
here in its own un
iambic feet.
is this love
or anti
-love? or apathy
or simply peace?
at least:
it almost feels complete
even if something’s missing.
and though love be a day,
it shall not start
kissing.
::
::
In November, we poem. This one is for the always inevitable love/anti love prompt.
Whimsygizmo's Blog 
Oh my word! This is absolutely amazingly stunning! Your play on/with words is sensational. I adore this piece!!! Going to read it many times today. Thank you!