Wednesday, September 16, 2015


                    This musing and enthusing in the morn
                    Is how, most days, another poem is born
                    While I am sitting in the semi-dark
                    Dreaming up rhymes to hit the end-line mark
                    And conjuring from my semi-conscious mind
                    Some way to make such happenstance designed
                    And even seem intended from the start,
                    Although I know I haven’t been that smart.
                    But truly it’s a mystery to me
                    How anything coherent comes to be
                    Emerging from a mind that’s nebulous
                    And seems spontaneous not sedulous,
                    For sprezzatura is my writing’s aim,
                    To make my mental labors seem a game.