We are serious!

You don't have to giggle a gaggle of words.
But almost-smiles do happen in the turning world.

Where is it frickin' written
that even blithe or blissy souls
must head for hell and black abysses
when sitting down to write a poem?

Egads!...I have no free will!
I was sipping wine pleasantly --
a bouquet of tremulous flowers
and vague indifferent visions
just hanging there in my head...
pushed me somehow into a poem.
And light instantly began a-moaning!

So serious. So serious. So serious.

Where is it frickin' written
that words must wear robes
like muttering morbid monks
with broken hearts or heads
filled with profound darkness?

Now of course one can go too far
and write a happy thing of horror --
no one wants to read vapid gushing,
a folksy wink makes a body shudder,
and a grinning poem is way grotesque.

But at least one poem in a thousand
might eschew a suicidal wallowing,
might almost smile at simple hours,
might give the fitful muse a night off,
might move in lines without a whimper.

God!......

At least one poem in a thousand
could be a Zen-like observation
of how luminosity touches objects
with its own moods and compulsion.

Damn...poetry is so miserably serious!
I think I'll jump and chort and snortle.