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.

Food for Thought

Random, in tandem with conscious intent,
produces our usefulness to time. I've spent
hours on ours, like time after time,
rehearsing verse. Right now, it's raining rhyme
and rhythm. No schism, or terse interjection
can dissolve the knot once we've got a connection
to things, such as strings, and to the ties that bind them
to thoughts that we ought to know just how to find hymns,
well, struck as if plucked by the finger of God,
or heard in the words of the weird and the odd.
No odder than fodder and feed for the flock,
I opine for hoping hearts open. Knock. Knock.