Here is where the feeble poem
steams with asparagus spears
wafting pungent rhymes through my house
settle upon table tops
and sofa arms.
There, in a large sauce pan
I mix metaphors -
chop sentences and
and stir the imagination.
From a distance I hear,
“too many commas spoil the verse.”
Harsh reviews say
“I’ve had a bad spell.”
Oh sure, I’ll stew -
but in the end, when lids lay tilt
and Haiku's
I shall dance
where Brussels sprout.
Z. Corwin
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