Instead of a Poem
Whose text this is, whose tone and pose,
I recognize; and though he shows
a claim to poetry that's weak,
he writes a crisp, incisive prose.
Not for him the meter's bleak
demand for polished old mystique --
though in his words I always hear
insistent rhythms try to speak.
He's struggled for his whole career
to fight the creak of leather gear,
the cantered anapestic feet,
that cavalry of hoofbeats near.
He works so hard to be off-beat
he'd never be so indiscreet
that he'd write something we'd repeat;
that he'd write something we'd repeat.
If you have any comments on this poem, Marcus Bales
would be pleased to hear from you.