POETRY CORNER
Unbound
The trickster was bound, but his imagination was free.
Tightly coiled within my brain
a slurry of words that I’ve kept restrained
in an effort to herd them into a form,
a preconceived notion of a poetry norm.
I carefully watch as the words march forth
describing what happens when filled with mirth,
the chanting begins and the letters dance
but wait, what’s this? They’re breaking out
from this prison of rhythm where I’ve
held them captive. Just a sec. Hold on
It looks like a riot
and I don’t know where this motley mob
will take us next, though I’m sure it’s only
temporary, unimpeded evidently
as the authorities simply stand by, watching
the nonsense as they flex their muscles
effortlessly
crossing boundaries I’ve tried to impose
and right there in front of my nose.
They want me to use the word gobbledygook.
I fight back, but they’ve worked it in.
Now they’re…
