Member Poem

If it lasts it must have merit,
or is it just a chimera?
Mountain tops inspiring,
cryptic lines that vanish in,
some moth infested haze,
Boulevards adored by,
budding artists whose,
mocha fuel creations stray off point,
Mother Earth obsessives as,
they press their rosy vision,
into silver clay mosaics,
tune smiths in a crisis,
over windy forest musings,
booker listed rising tide without rhyme,,
penmen stifled by their own ornate style,
heady tales that  somehow stretch,
across horizons seen  as muggy,
moonlight antics tapered off, 
bag and baggage endlessly,
recycled and repackaged,
needing to be heard or so we hear!