The Rhyme

The rhyme is deep within me;
It’s always been right there.
If someone can’t relate to it,
Too bad – I just don’t care.

Most poetry’s not rhyming,
Though once, it was the rage.
The modern poets scoff,
But rhyme still pulls me to the page.

I love its bouncy rhythms,
Adore its symmetry.
The playful patterns are a part
Of what appeals to me.

Some mystifying magic
Is programmed in my brain:
A prose thought gets converted
In a way I can’t explain.

Before I know what’s happening,
It’s almost like a dream,
The rhyming words are huddling
And conjuring a scheme.

I’m merely an observer,
A conduit of sorts;
The verses line up, waiting
Like opposing teams in sports.

I set them down on paper,
Then type them up real neat;
And after some finessing,
They feel final and complete.

Tomorrow there’ll be new thoughts.
I’ll be sure to make the time
To gather them and marvel as
They reemerge as rhyme.