The Mediocre Poet

He sees verdant hills and cool blue skies,
calls bird-loud glades his home.
Waves from the sea tumble and roll
—he counts the ways he loves his lovers’ souls.

He holds his Bartlett’s as a thesaurus to take,
to pluck as if no one would figure.
At sunset always a purple haze
—off-rhymes never miss the beat.

He’s the mediocre poet, sincere to the “T”,
inspired to write with cliché.
But the ladies take pleasures to hear and believe
—this composed love is something unique.

-July 22, 2005
Richard Aaron Wright