Saturday, March 9, 2013


     Each early morn from six or seven to eight
     I sit alone to muse and ruminate,
     My pad and pen poised, ready to record
     Whatever words my drowsy wits afford.
     Not far from Nod, the seat of nightly dreams,
     My lyrical imagination teems
     With notions longing to find voice and form,
     And I must deftly choose from all that swarm
     The most melodious and meaningful
     With charm and wittiness enough to pull
     An auditor from beat to beat and rhyme
     To rhyme, in hopes of reaching the sublime.
          Sometimes I make discoveries of import;
          Most times, however, I fall short.