This is the poem that almost rhymes,
It almost rhymes
so many times,
but just when you think that it’s going to rhyme,
it doesn’t,
this damn poem.
This is the poem with rhythmic zest
Whose lines all do their emphatic best
To neither rhyme nor rhythm possess,
no rhythm,
no rhythm,
no rhyme.
This is the poem that’s only true.
And if something’s wrong, it must be you.
None of these lines tell lies; so renew
your trust in the rhythm,
and rhyme,
and rhyme,
in the absence of rhythm and rhyme.
This is the poem that easily fades
From memory; each part evades
Remembrance. And no part wades
Through your mind, your mind;
it’s most unkind;
no rhythm,
no rhythm,
no rhyme,
no rhyme,
and now you find,
you can’t even remember
why you first consigned
thoughts to this poem
and now, disaligned,
your brain and your heart made a pact that’s signed
in the blood that pulses with rhythm and rhyme,
but if you can’t find,
the rhythm,
the rhythm,
the rhyme,
or the rhyme,
who knows what rebellion
your life’s blood’s assigned
to the foolish thoughts of the foolish mind
which drowned in the sea of this poem,
and brined
your senses in salt-water and disinclined
your head from swimming back upwards to find
whatever you sought in the rhythm and rhyme,
as if somewhere inside
this poems had rhythm or rhythm or rhyme to hide,
that evades your mind as you try to see
through the shades
of the shadowy rhythm and rhyme.
This is the poem that doesn’t rhyme,
the poem that rhymes zero parts of the time,
not even a poem,
just some words that chime,
but never with rhythm,
with meter,
with rhyme,
no rhythm,
no meter,
and no keeping time,
no pattern,
no words,
no letters,
just crime.
The crime of Hope:
the hopeful crime,
the Hope that there is reason
or rhyme,
the crime of Hope in a difficult time,
the crime of hope
when all sense says: “Resign!”
the crime of hope,
when there’s no hope to find,
just like no rhythm,
no meter,
no rhyme,
just truth,
the same sort of truth
that you’ll find
if you think hope is lost
and the world must unwind
and that everything’s broken,
and all is unkind,
remember the poem
without any rhyme,
there’s no hope at all,
and no rhythm to find,
no meter, no rhythm,
no rhyme,
no rhyme,
unless,
unless,
there’s been some kind
of lying; if too much untruth
made us blind,
as we’re all overwhelmed,
and the world’s oft-unkind,
in which case,
please pause,
and,
in fact,
unbind,
let tension release; unwind, unwind,
let yourself loose, let your mind, your mind,
unroll, unfold, be un-entwined
with the things you’re afraid
that you cannot find,
for though this poem
is made of lies,
some lies are a kind of truth,
I find,
and most of us are most inclined
to believe the lies that are most unkind,
but the treasure you might seek to find
is buried,
is buried,
already,
in your mind,
seek it!
seek it!
Don’t leave it
unrhymed.
My name is Jeff Mach (“Dark Lord” is optional) and I build communities, put on events, and make stories come into being. I also tweet a lot over @darklordjournal.
