It is April 1st once again and so begins National Poetry Writing Month. Last year, I finished a couple of poems away from the 30 verse target. Hopefully this year I can go all the way. Time will tell.

Without further ado… today’s offering.

A Most Poetic Death

“Good morning”, said the typist to,

The keyboard where he sat.

“I’m hoping we’ll get on this year,

Despite last April’s spat.”

The keyboard for it’s part said naught,

For keyboard’s cannot talk,

The typist sits there nervously,

Then gets up for a walk.

Returning, sitting, fingers placed,

He fumbles for some words.

But what appears on snowy page,

Are horrid, verbal turds.

He cannot write, he’s lost the knack,

So backs away again.

Perhaps the keyboard is the block,

Now searches for a pen.

It’s not the keyboard nor the pen,

He knows this from the start.

The problem is the emptiness,

Where verse lived in his heart.

He used to love the play of words,

The rhythm, shape and flow.

Has sacrificed that love for craft,

Too blind to see it go.

The typist sits, his fingers range,

And roam across the keys.

Tears form and trickle down his face,

As each weak verse he sees.

If craft lives now where once dwelt love,

Then craft must be a muse.

The poet dead, mere typist now,

A shell for craft to use.

Cheers, Winston