Sunday, July 6, 2014


   I think my sometimes muddled memory
   Is the price I have to pay for poetry
   I write by rummaging in my mind’s hoard,
   Deranging all to find the aptest word.
   Each rhyming sound my memory supplies
   Should seem inevitable yet still surprise.
   Such seeming ease means I must wrack my brain,
   Which suffers afterwards from undue strain,
   Refusing to serve up some needed fact
   No matter how importunately wracked.
   The only help is to relax and wait
   Until the strain and agony abate.
        Though writing poems may my brain abuse,
        That is a sacrifice I’ll yield my Muse.