Member Poem

If it lasts it must be good
or is it  just a bagatelle?
Mountain tops inspiring cryptic lines that
vanish in some moth infested haze,
Boulevards beloved of budding artists
whose mocha fueled creations stray off point,
Mother Earth obsessives as they press
their rosy vision
into silver clay mosaics,
tune smiths in a dither over windy forest
musings without rhyme,
the rising tide of booker listed penmen cramped
by their own inflated style,
heady tales that stretch across horizons as
muggy moonlight antics tapered off,
bag and baggage endlessly recycled  and
repackaged, needing to be told
or so we’re told!