C Richard Miles Poems

It sat there, so pretty in pink,
But soon my heart started to sink
At that sad intimation
Of the mad invitation.
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An exercise was posed to tax my mind
Where I was asked to write, with measured thought,
Ten syllables in each assembled line
To practise ancient esoteric arts
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I’m not averse to a stanza;
I’m not averse to a rhyme;
I’m not averse to a rhythm
Though it’s hard to keep it in time
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I think I am showing restraint
With the helpline I told my complaint,
For they view, with compunction,
Every software malfunction
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Free verse, they call it. But is it really fully free?
As language looms large like a secret-police state
Dominating, dictating, dulling unfettered thought
In unsuspended sentences of stultifying strict syntax,
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Though the trundling of the traffic adds rough rhythms to the city,
There’s an off-beat syncopation in the greenness of the park.
Whilst the clamour of the cattle-like commuter isn’t pretty,
There’s a beauty of the birdsong of the blackbirds after dark.
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My poems are somewhat, in fact quite a lot, not to put too fine a point on it, just a bit or, notwithstanding everything else I will say, a great deal sesquipedalian;

They are packed full, to wit, of long-winded words that don’t fit and ululating complicated and multi-syllabic, incomprehensible terms that feel almost alien.
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Backtrack
As you try to take back harsh words
Spoken far too quickly;
It’s hard to say
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Why do we build up waxwork monuments
To celebrate our mini-victories?
For we must know that in the spotlight
Of true scrutiny, they start to melt,
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Some poetry reveals too many secrets;
Some stories tell too many sordid tales;
Some songs sing harmonies that should be hidden;
Some rhymes just take themselves beyond the pale.
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