A unrhymed poem in trochee.

Nonsense is the answer, poet.
Incongruity in poesy
hides a lack of innate talent.
Nonce words need no vindication,
whimsy never wants but fancy.
Cognizance is over rated.
Since the reader does not “get” it,
why should we write subtle verses?
Dr. Geisel understood it,
Dodgson wrote to feign dementia.
Audiences thought ‘twas genius.
Why, oh why, should I make sense then?
There is only one good reason-
“I” would like to read my poesy.

Damn! there goes another poet
off to the land of nonmeter
overstressed about the stresses
made to write outside of rhyme
(though he did it this one time)

Syllables spoken naturally
though in a southern dialect
even when spoken out loud
stressed and unstressed run together
as his head turns into mush

Losing count of all the lines
as he slowly loses his small mind
while sitting in the padded room
trying to write trochaically

sunsets beauty showing pastel lighting
mother nature's canvas unfolds to earth
the tress outlined in shades of dark shadow
hanging heavy from nights dew drop splendor
forest creature will sleep without the fear of harm
upon it's floor a bed of leaves and twigs
cushion the sound footfalls that man will make
all is silent at peace and rest for now

Blinding darkness
Only seeing with the naked touch
That sends images to a fevered mind,

Fingers navigate every contour of a physical soul
Pleasure heightens with each new discovery
Of a erogenous zone,

Salty sweet sweat begins to pour
From the heat that rises on the surface of the skin
Breaths of air escape in fevered pitches
As if a beast emerged from somewhere deep,

Eyes now see the beauty of the aura
As conscience is loss of the outside world
And senses flare into universal oneness,

Round orbs of light swirl in the dark night sky
Which float above an endless world of hate
Their light absolves all fear of youthful death
The wars, they rage around our children's souls
Disease and hunger steal their life away
Here in this war torn world no one is safe
Children look to these strange orbs for comfort
They hope that when they die they will go there

At Christmas time,
The windows close
And fog out
The chilly clime.

The stars in the sky,
Are burning and bright.
The children are warm
And cozy inside,
And the little match girl
Is left out to die.