Tuesday, August 11, 2015


                    Just when I think my vatic well’s run dry,
                    An impulse comes to take another try:
                    So what if I’ve no subject to explore:
                   Each venture starts by opening a door
                   Then stepping out with confidence that soon
                   The Muse will kindly grant her daily boon:
                   A line will come that prompts another one,
                   And this goes on until the poem’s done,
                   An entity that could not be forethought
                   But wisps and glints spontaneously caught
                   And pinned like butterflies upon a board
                   Finding design that it is striving toward—
                        Then realizing what it’s all about
                        Just as the lines and beats and rhymes run out.