An Ode to the Blank Page in Pseudo-Sonnet Form

By Eric L. Moreno

 

Empty whiteness stares back at me

Mocking, taunting, laughing, leering

Hey, when why am I supposed to use “thee?”

Mocking, taunting, laughing, leering.

 

Spenserian, Italian … What? How?

This is all a mystery, all ans unknown.

Why poems? Why do this now?

Wait did that rhyme? Is my pattern blown?

 

I type and type, but don’t see the point.

I am no poet. No Eliot. No Yeats.

Look at my meter, my rhyme scheme. Doh! Why did I say “point?”

Now look where you’re at, idiot! You can’t rhyme Yeats!

 

That’s it, now I’ve blown the pattern, blown the scheme.

Yet, write on I must. Think on I must. Create on I must.

Dang it! Quick, hand me a Thesaurus … umm, “gleam.”

Whew, this next one is easier, this next rhyme is just “just.”

 

Thank God. I am now at the end.

Name, address, spell check, send.