Quiet boredom cloaked in silence
Here no nervous tension, no sudden drama
Only colored pebbles pushed by young fingers
While many eyes peruse, page by page
Old editions, as if finding great interest
In the outdated print, only pausing to cast
Surreptitious glances at fellow bookworms, who
Knowing full well, obligingly return the favor, causing

The good poems always rhyme
And always have time
And are artistic, like a mime

If it doesn’t rhyme, it’s not the real deal
Even if it makes you feel
It isn’t poetry, and it isn’t real

Blank verse is pretty bad
Free verse is really quite sad
Frankly, it makes me mad

If you want to really make it
As a writer, and fit
In, you have to rhyme a bit

When you pick up the pen

Not long into their walk they passed a small park that lay silent by the side of the road. It stretched back from the sidewalk into the darkness and was watched over by large, spreading trees. The faintest glimmer of reflected moonlight betrayed the presence of a shallow pond reposing under the overhanging leaves.