Thursday, January 2, 2014


        My yearly crop of poetry is in,
        All girded up in sheaves and neatly bound,
        And now another cycle’s to begin
        With verse to range from silly to profound.

        It matters not what comes, so long as I
        Arise before the dawn and sit me down
        In readiness, pad on my lap, to try
        Whatever comes to mind, a verb or noun,

        A clause or phrase, the first hint of a notion
        That then begins to form and run a course
        That’s unpredictable once set in motion,
        Arising from some dark, unfathomed source.

             It matters not if what I make is great
             Or small, so long as I participate.