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Wednesday, January 4, 2012

For Want Of Style

I want to be Coleridge
I want to write of Xanadu
But I don’t want to smoke opium
Or be interrupted by a person from Porlock

To wander the North
In search of Service
Poking at the coals of Sam McGee
Still entombed in a firebox locked in the ice

Go left, instead of right
Hacking through brambles
Short on sight
Touched by Frost

Get on my Silverstein
Go to where the sidewalk ends
Peer into the beyond
Sing a song, make amends

Do a Seuss
Rhyme words that don’t belong
Even making some up
To amuse and enthrong

Hack like Morrison
Eat the peyote
See sad strange visions in the desert
Vomit up poetry

Ramble with Dylan
Sing incoherently
Attend Woodstock
Have the Memphis blues apparently

Finding one’s style can be elusive
And is only seen
After you stop trying
What’s left, is you




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