The problem with this merry month
is wordsmiths let loose fantasies,
that we think real as reel can be,
the sound required, licence allows,
a statement of the obvious.
I know the term must earn its keep,
speak for itself with clarity,
bridge, liminal from here to there,
the list, inadequate, revealed,
shortfall of airy diction book.
Not frittered spam or flittered sprite,
not fitted wordrobe, bedroom plan,
or filler, putty, caulk to scan,
but more than that, the sound as lifts;
that foot required when metre’s short
like muesli when the muse falls flat,
wordfitters in their rightful place.
Keep writing on, but mind the gap,
though right, life unpredictable;
for some, short circuitry at work,
while others may judge brainwaves slack –
but, poets, it’s your voice to birth,
and mined, rite words, to fit that space,
cut diamond facets, flash of sun.