Bad Poetry


Poetry school was in the early nineteen eighties: the Reagan years. I finally finished a BA in English in the year nineteen eighty-four, not ominous at all. So far, they have not strapped a rat cage to my head.

It was just one class and lots and lots of reading through the years. That class was transformative as far as my writing goes.

One of our first assignments was to write a bad poem. I wrote two. They are coming along after this short introduction.

My thinking at the time was the first represents emotion without form, and the second was structure without emotion. Did it work?





Quietly, peacefully,

the waves role on to

beach; they roll out.

Your hand in mine,

soft, gentle,

our love will last

even as the sun fades into

the darkness. I will

live in your glow.



Rolling Frost in His Grave


Birch trees are pretty neat.

They are better than the street.

They shield us from the sun,

And climbing them is fun.


My thoughts are never so sweet

As when the birches I meet.

Sometimes silver in the snow,

Cold and chilled, I walk slow.

About johnsmithiiimxiii

John Smith, IIMXIII is the avatar of an award winning poet, artist, etc. who still lives in the Palouse country of the Pacific NW. He has not received much notice with his prose . . . but as his avatar, I hope that he keeps plugging along.

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