Warning Will Robinson!

Must’ve got it wrong, silly me,
thought the way to poetic decency
was doing the right thing – writing
deferential poetry not boring pants
off punters with endless re-runs of
slavish, pseudo-onomatopoeic rhyme.

But you can’t help see a breakneck,
boring-to-death race where the rules
of the game must be fifty posts daily
of garden waste clipped, sorted and
weighed in miasmic meanderings of
naively misguided surplus energy.

Or is it all that unseemly? Maybe an
agrarian revolution is underway and
composted vegetable matter is indeed
today’s poetic currency! Must brush off
the garden gloves wield a pair of pruning
shears and get myself started properly.
© 23 May 2008, I. D. Carswell