Not that sort of poet...

If you are someone that thinks poetry requires rhyme, then I'm not that sort of poet.

If you require obscure rules to be followed and scans to be precise, then I'm not that sort of poet.

If you like a punchline at the end of each verse and do not wish to think outside of any box, "Thank You Very Much" - then I'm not that sort of poet.

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Maybe I am a proset?  Or would that be prosette?

I like to use the sounds that words make to paint pictures.

I like to make patterns.

I sometimes even try to snowflake in little devices to make my sort of receiver take note and grin the inner grin that generates the warmth of knowing that there is another human being in the world that gets what you wish that you could say in a way that you wish you could say it even if you had never been in that particular situation or realised that it needed to be said?

I know - its true, there are very few of those types of people in the world.

That would be why there are very few of my sort of poet.

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How is the weather in your neck of the woods?

I wrote a poem tonight - a rare enough event these days.  Ah youth, when I used to have a dozen to choose from each week at various readings.

Still, one.  Better than where I was at yesterday...

So - here is a poem about the weather...

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Weather Wail

We live in a house
That is the wind’s harmonica.

This wind has gone out,
    got drunk
and is whistling its way home tonight.

It’s a dance, a lament
An aria
    A smattering of raindrops
The sawdust for its soles.

The flashes of lightning are disco balls reflecting
    Lurid suits cutting the dancefloor.

The thunder a stomping of boots
A rumble of mirth
    A delicate chunder
Behind the garden fence.

Class act, I know, but this weather cares not for your sensibilities.
Its charged
and quite the adolescent anarchist tonight.

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So - give me your own weather update in whatever sort of poet (or not) you may be...