I am a poet of the old kind
Letting no jigsaw plague my rhyme
No complex metaphors to have you blind
in my black and white peppered lines
I can strip naked for the voyeur
Honesty walks down my foyer
The thespian, the surgeon and the lawyer
are plainclothespersons making up my choir
Who can blame the art that’s simple?
Every child must see the stars that twinkle
Cheating the truth is like hiding a wrinkle
Let the blemishes be obvious like a crinkle
Gold from raw ore is an alchemist’s opus
Ambidexterity and skill are a juggler’s truss
But a lucid idea is a humble firefly
faintly lighting up the sky with its little dye
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