A poem, bespoke, can be a splendid prize,
Or else can be a holiday surprise,
For one beloved in whose watching eyes
A person wants to look both good and true.
It can, instead, be made to foster rue
In someone whose rebuke is overdue,
A slap delivered faceward without hands,
The stinging pain of which across years stands.
Short strings of verse can meet many demands;
They can achieve goals spurred by love or pride,
They can address what is often denied,
And they can speak truths all too oft belied.
O, you are worth a verse or two, I say;
Avail yourself of such without delay!

In sonnet form or still an older style
I push my pen as purpose will demand
To meet the mandate, what must be done,
Which the eater of verses, eager with eyes
To look upon lines of love or of honor,
Says what speaking should sit on the page,
Field well furrowed and soon to bring fruit.
The ink-home will empty; efforts avail
To lay out the lines that will linger on,
A person’s Polaris, a point for true steering
To guide those who go out in the great world,
Marvelous making that measure defies,
Rightly through writing to reckon how life
Is bettered, is boasted, while borrowed a time–
Such I can say; who will sit and read it?

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