Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
I really don’t know
What appeals to you.
Maybe no rhyming,
Or centering text?
You never know
What I will do next.
So fatten the seatbelts,
Feed them some jelly.
It seems that I have
Just too much belly.
Not that I’m fat,
I wear my weight well
My butt has been known
To watch as pants fell.
Nor am I skinny,
I could not tell a lie,
At six feet in height
I don’t look very wide.
The point I will make
When I’m good and ready,
Will explain why my writing
Is filled with confetti.
I have never studied
The art of the writer
Truman Capote once
Called me “knee-biter”.
I know many words,
Some long and some short,
But building like Legos®
Is the rule of my sport.
While philosophy still
Has appeal to me,
I make up my own
To suit my belief.
So when I am writing
The serious stuff
There is thinking required
And not too much guff.
Sometimes my goal
Is to just entertain,
And some of my thoughts
Are too hard to explain.
This isn’t my art,
Just something I do
To make a small statement
About me to you.
The only requirement
I have for myself
Construction of words
Must be seen and be felt.
Rhythm and rhyme,
I don’t always need.
But structure is always
The start or the seed.
Patterns can be either
Tiny or huge,
As long as there is one
Like Bach and the Fugue.
Sometimes the pattern
Is simple like Pi
Never repeating,
Consistent in style.
But just when you think
You’ve figured it out
I’ll throw in a wrench.
On Thick Ice - The Spurious Imaginings of Reality 