The caliber of poetry and song
I hear is woefully inadequate.
The writers wedge in words that don’t belong,
or clashing sense, or syllables unfit
for rhythm or so tritely overused
they only reinforce cliches. I flinch
when I attend to lyrics, pulse-abused
and ear-insulted, moving not an inch.

It isn’t hard to start the inner drum
and like a puzzle solve to fix the stress.
Describing, track the meter with your thumb
and speak aloud the impulses that press
your passage into scaffolds as you age.
Be honest. Now be lively on the page.