Birthing The Verse

Birthing the verse is a difficult matter
Slipshod constructions of letters and thought
Poets must often be mad as a hatter
To venture forth baring creatures they’ve wrought

These are my children, these poems of wonder,
Playing with patterns they’ve not tried before
Rending most obvious thoughts quite asunder
Seeking new truth behind each stanza’s door.

The smallest of poems, they tend to be wise,
The tallest are often most ponderous,
The twins play in couplets that oft feign surprise,
And all use devices quite wondrous.

Some are full of laughter, others are quite sad,
Some shift in meaning day by day by day,
Some speak of love they’ve never known or had,
Others speak not but hope to simply play

What do I wish for them? What should they become?
Why are they here, and where are they going?
Shall they impart greater insight, then, to some
While others read words without the knowing?

I hope they are cheery, I hope they are bright,
I dream they spring forth earnest, fully formed;
I pray that they outline love’s long, lost, pale plight,
Or touch a heart that has not yet been warmed.

For these are my children, these cradles of verse,
Bundled in beauty and rhythm and rhyme,
Out, then, I send them, for better or for worse,
So they may stand, showing truth for all time.