Dear Mr. Frost

I know you’re turning over in your grave
When sophistry pretends to be a poem
Attached to you to win the prize— some rave
About the blank verse of Bryn Mawr, a tome
Of sex, a doper and a preppie gal
In loose iambics, all too forced and strained
Throughout, these “friends” which strains your bowels most foul.
Poor Suzie and Melissa have been trained.
What academic in his right mind touts
This tripe, dear Bob, this brazen dash to rob
You of prestige? Does Crawford have some doubts?
Should he withdraw the prize to keep his job?
Of all the poems that could have won the day,
The Frost Farm’s come undone the “Buddy” way.





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Charles (Charlie) Southerland lives on his farm in North-Central Arkansas where he bales hay, mills lumber, hunts and fishes. When he has time, he writes poetry on just about every subject. He is published in Trinacria, The Rotary Dial, First Things, The Road Not Taken and other journals. He has been nominated for a 2016 Pushcart Prize and is a finalist in the 2015 Howard Nemerov Sonnet Contest. He likes to write sonnets, villanelles and sapphics.