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On Poems and Rhymes You, O Expert, declare that poems, Unless ruled by rhyme And neatly structured Are “just pretending to be poems.” Hmm, interesting… When my poems are forced into the rhyme machine, They roll out whitely sanitized and primly uniform, But flat – Lacking sparkle, originality and life. And for that matter, What is poetry? For in truth, It is more than lines And rhymes, But wind whispering secrets to autumn leaves, The sun warmly kissing upturned rose petals, Ice cold water laughing as the winter snow melts, The sound of children Joyfully chasing illusive fireflies on a warm summer’s night. That is poetry. 
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