rulesThey tell me that poems don’t have to rhyme.
well, that’s great, but
how are you to know whether
you’re reading a poem
or just a collection of words, huddled together in pleasing collaboration?:

The newspaper article that trips nicely off the tongue;
The shopping list with unexpected rhythm –
peppers, sausage, (and don’t forget the biscuits)
milk, butter, and a birthday card for Mike.

Or even this.
The scrawled musings
Of a wandering mind
Sometime after midnight.
(Tuesday, in bed).
The illegitimate offspring of an addled imagination.

Where do we draw the line?
When even the inane and ridiculous can pose as pretend Poets Laureate?:
Maize, milk powder, E203, xanthum gum, stabiliser, monosodium what-a-state.
May contain nuts.

But then again,
when we ooh and ahh at ‘works of art’
(And here I’m talking pickled sharks and unmade beds)
I’m led to the uncomfortable,
rather disquieting,
that breaking the rules
can make mugs of us all.

I can only wonder
who exactly makes these rules anyway?

christmas5_001s. x

Philip Glass – Koyaanisqatsi

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