Muster Grace

VERGE of chaos, strife always straining to cliff’s edge,
SHORT fuses and fears ascendant reach for grim logic,
TRIPE abundant, speech measured by edge’s sharpness.
STOIC hearts must beat slowly and muster grace.

Awful

‘It’s offal how STOICs eat TRIPE,’ his
SHORT girlfriend complained. He replied,
‘I think you VERGE on mispronunciation, Miss. Treating a
TRIPE-eating STOIC as VERGE-ing on SHORT of taste.’  

The poet suffers from lack of inspiration

My first attempt wound up in a drastic STATE,
ERODEd my ideas of birth and death and fate.
Perhaps this second try will be more TASTY,
WACKY even, not like a undercooked pastie.

Nope, the thing insists on being WACKY,
a STATE of things I know is tacky.
TASTY it’s not, and hasn’t flowed –
it’s caused my hard-won lines to ERODE.