Curtains of rain sweep across the field,
obscure the trees and spoil the view.
If I were God, then I would wield
a mighty mop – sun overdue.
Trochaic tetrameter can be varied
with the odd iamb from time to time ─
adhered to rigidly it can be horrid
like anything carried to extreme
Perfect poems need variety
to spice them up and make you think,
without the slightest impropriety
or causing you to take to drink.
Writing poems can be obsessive
rhyme and rhythm retrogressive
and so, just to be perverse,
I‘ll change my style into free verse.
The horizon drifts behind the mist
emerging here and there as ghostly trees
tattered grasses cross my sight …
Darn it, I’ve reverted to type,
with doggerel. Stop me, please.
Not a literary journal gives us a lovely prompt to obey or disobey the rules of poetic form, invent our own or not, as the fancy takes us.