The Dilettante

To no one in particular,
but everyone out loud

What you portend as Poetry,
should never make you proud

The words are so revealing,
of what’s not inside your head

Your heart lies soundly sleeping,
there forever in your bed

The words you do disservice,
as the rhyme you then defame

The couplets maimed and slaughtered,
with free verse then just the same

With your voice not flat or tinny,
maybe you should try to sing

Because verse as you now write it
—is a bee that cannot sting

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)