Some poems to explore, he sort of liked them and wanted 50 more,
Suggested I follow the narrative path when I came back.
Next year of my novel he said even Joyce wrote plots.
A year’s gone since his passing, yet I remain alive still writing:
The poems are still as sharp as prose; the prose still dulls the point of story.
It seems I have not listened, though breathe humble thanks to his memory,
hearing his subtle smile in response, in repose
I do respect those who count syllables, redoubt couplets and prune appletizers,
Puzzlers whose games contain the cryptic and calisthenically obtuse:
“To solve, rearrange each word while removing a letter from its opposing negative.”
Built of simpler stock, my house of wood, a set of boxes, entrance front and back;
Geyser off till hot water needed; nothing is ever cooked; my roses sport thorns.
Might my late mentor now sweetly agree,
A rose rhymed by any other name would smell as prose?