Saturday, December 19, 2015


               In memories, dreams, reflections often come 
               The stuff that poetry is fashioned from
               As quietly the poet contemplates
               In hopes the inspiration he awaits
               Will suddenly his seeking brain inflate
               With notions that in sound and sense relate
               And seem predestined once they’ve been transcribed
               To be remembered always and world wide.

               Regrettably, it rarely is the case
               That poems come with such amazing grace
               That they seem destined for eternal fame,
               But join the ranks of verses halt and lame
               Whose manuscripts lie crumpled in a bin,
               And such is just the case that I’m now in.