Elemental Poetry Aspects - (thoughts anew, sings true, words are few, some humor too)

Living dreams bound to unfold.
Fleeting tales so deeply told.
Rows of words, too true, yet few,
aligned to muse the gods and you.

Pursue elusive art of speech
masterpiece within your reach
ten words away, too much to say,
great thoughts from now and yesterday.

To rhyme or not to rhyme,
to free or not to see
to pen a verse as plain as mud
or subtle as the tongue can be.

To curse, or joke, or genuflect
to choose meek words, or be direct
to set them up, rigged for surprise
divine the truth, between the lies.

Rhyme some riddles, make some puns,
dangle adjectives for fun.
Make up words, don't say when,
conjure verbs, ignore trends.

Hang traditions, communicate,
no suspicions, keep it straight.
Sweet sacrifice, eternal blunder,
gift of life, inferno thunder.

Seduce all ears, ambush fears,
kiss her eyebrows, 'count her tears.'
Under cover, in the night,
lift lost lovers back to flight.

Never bore, give em more,
keep the picture moving,
interlace 'discovery shock'
with sweet semantic soothing.

Subtle be, rarely shout,
write too much, throw some out.
Pan for rhymes, wind up verbs,
adjudicate comparing words.

Conjunctions bore, offer more,
replace the blanks with adjectives.
Enrich the poor, open doors,
deck the halls with magic gifts.

Take some chances, risk enhances
volume, thrills, and theme.
Flights and dances, lingual lances,
wake them from their dream.

Matrix maze, zombie ways,
nazi plans, fleeting days.
Break some rules, fool some fools.
Make em rewrite books in schools.

Let em laugh, type some fun,
dodge some agents, be The One.
Dream da Vinci, think van Gogh
tell them what they still don't know.

Speak clearly to the muddled masses.
Forsake impressing pompous peers,
nude poetry clothed in the classes,
knees touching for six thousand years.

All poets, painters, scientist,
a thin lipped mistress marry,
as infidels exploring strange,
by church and state are buried.

So many have not noticed yet
their binds are cut but can't forget
the 'olden rules' of poetry.
Dead poets live yet still not free.

Span the universe of Earth,
uncover wealth of greatest worth.
Blab the secrets of this life.
Sing of jubilee and strife.

Do all this true and waste no word.
Task the world to see and cope.
Try to explain the once absurd,
'for that well known, there is no hope.'

Painted words hang in the air
lingering in song sublime,
Vincent's dying brush strokes flare,
scrawling artifacts in time,
scheming with all others there
to deify a perfect rhyme.