Poemdoodle

I honestly have no idea
where any of this comes from.
I sit here, dumdy-dumdy-dum:
and humdrum quatrains come

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or verse-lets
aching to become
sweet little tercets

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or a sonnet which now seeks to savor
something in the realm of dreamlike senses
that appear to want to change the flavor
of my adjectives, adverbs and tenses –

so to be the signal I would send out
to those yearned-for ears and hearts and tender
sensibilities which might then lend out
news of what they’d heard, to her – to send her

on a further voyage through to some king
who might help the lot of us to fuel
yet more fusing coalescence: drumming
into some translucent state of jewel

a balcony from which we’d then have shown
an alchemy transfiguring our own –

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which might not have put out its glimmer, quick –
if we had enabled the trimmer trick
of treating her gout
so she wouldn’t spit out
the whole of this foregoing limerick.

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You ask: who is her?
I reply: she is she.
Use correct grammar
or don’t speak to me.

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