My son wrote this poem. He told me that I could send it to one of those blogs that ask their readers for various types of participation. However, this being Mother’s Day, I don’t think he can kill me for putting it out where people are (almost) aware of who he is. He’s 18 and in his first year of college. I like it and hope you do too.

Irony

For meter and rhyme,

I haven’t the time,

and my mind is a stagnant pool.

For this is my curse:

I cannot write verse;

can you think of a fate more cruel?

 

I have not the muse,

my mind does refuse,

to pour forth my soul, though I try.

I’m not a poet.

God knows I know it;

I wish I could break down and cry.

 

But still must I write,

most every night,

In hopes that I might one day make,

a poem or lyric,

perhaps a panegyric

that sounds neither trite, bad, nor fake.