Poetry and I never could get along,
I grappled with the rules, and the gist of the stanza.
Frozen with fear I might do it all wrong,
Over poetry writing, I chose reruns of Bonanza.

Part of the problem was this business with rhyming—
It had to be perfect and, of course, also make sense,
Keeping in mind meter, scansion and timing.
And on top of all that was — or is — the matter of tense.

Haiku, pastoral, limerick or free verse...
My head was spinning, I could no longer dwell on it;
The surfeit of styles would drive a Puritan to curse.
Yet by forging ahead, it seems I've written a sonnet.

So all that remains is for this quibble to end,
Since apparently poetry just might be my friend.