Hear Ye. Hear Ye. Here we
propose to posit prose poetry,
forming forms of continuous connectivity
to communicate considerable
contemplative reflectivity.

Simply put, we pose this where
prose poetry is what you'll hear
when wondering where the time went
while reading such rhyme wonderments
as oft we've wrought, and revealed thusly;
each whit of wit written Hieronymously.

Bitch Lapped

We know more snow is coming soon;
twixt four and six, or mixed by noon,
with sleet and rain, a plain old mess

proposed for those near this address.

With this address, I guess you'll see
what's supposed to be such poetry
as one would witness in my home,
weather or not here you come.

My little Piddle is a mixed Spitz bitch.
She naps upon my lap now, which
may not mean much to you who
do not know her like I do.

Sleeping dogs lie softly snoring,
knowing snow well, since exploring
noses blew through new snow flying
just before her snores, lap lying.