Author Information
ALL POETS ARE MAD
DON’T ASK ME TO EXPLAIN MY POETRY
The poet says “Don’t ask me to explain my poetry;
My muse has developed a schizoid embolism
My verse is terse since she has a psychotic nurse
And I am unable to make sense of all the symbolism.”
I make use of hyperbole all the way to hyperspace
Madness is a disease all poets have to suffer
They make use of their refrain from creases in the brain
And for all the illusions and silliness they have no buffer.
Schitzy Robert Frost diverged into both roads in the woods
Theodore Rilke talks to his roses all bunched in a bowl
Wadsworth can easily say the child is father of the man
And Shakespeare speculates whether man has a soul.
Let them continue to use poetic license to conflate us
Let their imagery titillate, cajole and make us wonder
About the stars beyond the planet Mars and Pluto
And how the trickster causes us all to blunder
I salute all my fellow poets who join me in this act
Of joining words together in this marvelous way
To suffer from madness gives the world gladness
And for this I hope that we are all here to stay.
