LECTURES:

Taught, told & ordered, guided & duly geared & steered,

By teachers, mentors, tutors & by parents, dutifully reared,

Write like this, write that, not so, do it this way & that way,

The sonnet, prose, rhyme, verse & the perfect little essay,

Told by one, told by all, on how to scribe the perfect poem,

When all my pen really wanted, was to amble & solely roam,

Too many ordered instructions & too many perfected rules,

Put into my poor wooly head, by so many different schools.

My weary old soul daily dies a little, by doing what it´s told,

Many say I know nothing, zilch & deem me to be too bold,

I care not for fortune, nor name & really don´t care for fame,

I do not write for the millions & certainly don´t play the game,

The eloquent may rant & scoff, then tell me I´m wrong & I err,

My structure, grammar & spelling & my rhyming is just a blur,

But the poetry I write, comes to me, deep in my nightly dreams,

From far off places & distant worlds, while I make other schemes.

If I follow all rules, write what others want, preach & have bespoke,

I´d be like the poor sad baobab, who is buried in the soil of the oak,

The raiment of words would be far too big or frightfully tiny & small,

And I´d be like the leaf in autumn, not knowing how to tumble & fall,

I write only for me, for my mind, my heart & my poor lonely old soul,

Merely accepting God´s gift, the bung to stop up the large gaping hole,

So pray leave me be, alone with words that are solely & entirely mine,

And in my unruly utopia, I´m content with my unlawful & scruffy scribed line.