Tuesday, January 6, 2015


      My morning starts: communing with the Muse
      (After the dogs are tended to and fed)
      By sitting, sipping mocha, seeking clues
      Of what, that day, seems needing to be said.

      The engine of my verse is always rhyme
      That drives each line along to where it tends
      Then forces it to stop right on the dime
      And turn toward where that pattern neatly ends.

      It’s not that I have something set to say,
      A thesis or idea to expound;
      It’s rather that I set a game in play
      Then find out when I finish where I’m bound.

           A pattern that is bodiless, abstract
           Becomes a living, breathing artifact.