Member-only story
It’s said
there’s a poet
hiding in our midst,
like some mysterious creature
only a few claim to have ever seen
Bigfoot or the Kraken perhaps -
that’s a cryptid — a creature said to exist
but never actually proven to do so.
Some poems I read are like that,
prose that’s said to be poetry
but never proven to be so.
A mishmash of words and structure
that breaks all the rules
but proclaims to be the modern way.
Like a cryptic crossword puzzle
that only the most abstract minds
can figure out.
cut the capitals,
drop the rhyme,
or is that the pilot?
Instagram poets rule -
well on Instagram at least.
Classic poetry has been and gone,
like the morning’s first cup of coffee
the cream on top is past its use-by date.
Robert Frost has long since thawed
between the woods and frozen lake
on the darkest evening of the year.
Syllable count and meter be damned!
Santa is just Satan in disguise,
or is it just the devil
in the detail?
The end
is nigh.
