I've written several poems using a single rhyme or at least a very limited number of rhymes. An example of a single rhyme poem is "Pride: Skeltonics," written in July 2021 and posted on this blog on 19 December 2023. Read it here.
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Now I lay me down to sleep,
Day’s long wester done and dusted,
In my head I hear a “beep,”
Loud then thin like winds when gusted:
Pointed as a signal’s bleep –
Conscience’ restless, “Oh, if only...” –
Probing “Were you kind or cheap,
Aidful to the lame and lonely;
Were you frank or did you creep
Thoro’ swamps of lies for spoilings?”
Matters these, which, psyche-deep,
Fuddled by fake motives’ coilings,
Many thrust in some dark heap,
Urgent that they be not branded
Losers like Uriah Heep.
Nightmare: with your sins you’re stranded,
Chased by lictors in a jeep;
Pinned, hot-cheeked, you face the sentence,
“Truth’s not yours to mould and keep;
Clouded though it be by pretence,
Truly it exists. Now leap.”
Fly-lords, though, those dire deceivers,
When the soul is at its neap,
Wielding reason’s logicked levers
“Prove” all that’s a misheard peep.
Caution! What they’re really saying’s
“Buster, what you sow we reap.”
Limping, then, through springtime mayings,
Trudging winter’s frozen seep,
Thoughtful man, though still cuss-minded,
Follows inkling, not the sheep:
Trustful is he or self-blinded?
Whichway, having topped a steep,
Visioned, there he finds a locus;
Eye-wide at the land’s far sweep,
Scruples, guilts and all that hocus
Purge away; absolved, he’ll weep;
Going down, his world adjusted,
There at last he’ll soothe in sleep.
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© July-August 2024
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Now I lay me down to sleep,
Day’s long wester done and dusted,
In my head I hear a “beep,”
Loud then thin like winds when gusted:
Pointed as a signal’s bleep –
Conscience’ restless, “Oh, if only...” –
Probing “Were you kind or cheap,
Aidful to the lame and lonely;
Were you frank or did you creep
Thoro’ swamps of lies for spoilings?”
Matters these, which, psyche-deep,
Fuddled by fake motives’ coilings,
Many thrust in some dark heap,
Urgent that they be not branded
Losers like Uriah Heep.
Nightmare: with your sins you’re stranded,
Chased by lictors in a jeep;
Pinned, hot-cheeked, you face the sentence,
“Truth’s not yours to mould and keep;
Clouded though it be by pretence,
Truly it exists. Now leap.”
Fly-lords, though, those dire deceivers,
When the soul is at its neap,
Wielding reason’s logicked levers
“Prove” all that’s a misheard peep.
Caution! What they’re really saying’s
“Buster, what you sow we reap.”
Limping, then, through springtime mayings,
Trudging winter’s frozen seep,
Thoughtful man, though still cuss-minded,
Follows inkling, not the sheep:
Trustful is he or self-blinded?
Whichway, having topped a steep,
Visioned, there he finds a locus;
Eye-wide at the land’s far sweep,
Scruples, guilts and all that hocus
Purge away; absolved, he’ll weep;
Going down, his world adjusted,
There at last he’ll soothe in sleep.
===============
© July-August 2024
