Part-time Poets of Poetry

A pen rather than write, retreats, Some whilst play games, some write for name Loiter in literary streets, And return just as once they came, Love for pen proving a bit lame, And greed for glamour soaring high, A lot that falls within this frame Neither for poems live nor die. Shelley-like some write in long sheets ‘Aloft the sky in words of flame’, Some think them as modern day’s Keats, Some think, theirs and Brown’s styles as same, All aim t’be in Arcadia’s frame, That their fame would one day soar high, Yet, all this proves too tall an aim To those that for pen live nor die. Far fewer can claim ideal feats, Nor tall regions in far stars claim, And face dire ruins and defeats And fail to walk new paths to fame, Kiss fame, nor beat Destiny’s game, Subdue pride with smile pretty wry, Nor get to know a Fame named dame, Nor get to live nor for pen die. Envoi Yet, inscribe still beneath their name, Pen name and pose a fat pie, Soon to disappear as came— Those that for pen live nor yet die. ___________________________________ Ballade |11.03.2024| poets, poetry Poet’s note: In tribute to Sir John Squire. The Ballade rhyme scheme: ababbcbC/ababbcbC/ababbcbC/bcbC