In Offense of Criticism

a brief grief, a rambling tirade...

I would not wound stranger
or friend
with cold incisive truth.
I would not tell another
"Yours is a waste
of energy, of words, of time."

Am I cruel to remain silent?

I would not harm,
though the finest works have been wrought
of the bleak ashes of misery.

I try
to gently steer
but to my eye...
influence becomes another's possession.

Ignorance unchecked can produce
the most glorious stanza.
So, I am jealous of my intake
of others' works.

We have access
to the literature of millennia
with the quick clickety-clack
tippety tap
of a second's keystroke.

Are we swayed by it?

Through lack of rhyme or of keeping time
can my efforts never match the masters?

Am I undisciplined,
or gloriously free?

My gluttony
for a decadence of syllables
narrows my perception.

I mourn language.
This age I live in
slips into phonetic faux-pas
that remain unrealized, thus uncorrected.
Through repetition, what is wrong becomes right.

Webster's will not save us.

Love of words gathers dust
in the libraries
where volumes will gather their weight
ere I am.