Wednesday, April 22, 2015


               I sit and sip my morning latte brew
               With yellow pad on lap and pen in hand
               In hopes a message from the Muse comes through,
               A boon I can request but not command.

               The best prerequisite’s a good night’s sleep
               So I might ponder in alert repose
               Ready for something rising from the deep
               That once for ancient minstrels arose.

               My daily practice is to contemplate
               While waiting to define what comes to mind
               In rhythmic words that aptly celebrate
               Whatever inspirations I’ve opined.

                    The last thing, though, I want my poem to tout
                    Is how its very being came about.