I often chide the poets of our time
For being narcissistic to a fault
For being formless and eschewing rhyme
Abandoning the strictures we exalt.
Face it! The boundaries of art are forms,
The latest fashions that adorn ideas,
That tweak the eye, the ear, the mind—perform
A magic that turns artists into seers.
Yet, always, artists do project ego
We shape worlds reflecting our obsession
We forget that art is, despite our throes
A formal and aesthetic expression
Thrust your ego if you must, goshdarnit—
Just slick it up—clothe it in a sonnet.
(3/25/14)