Sunday, December 13, 2015


                    I never know where my new poem will go,
                    Since there’s no set agenda to fulfill—
                    Just beats and rhymes to roll out row by row
                    As it reveals its course by its own will.

                   Somehow a seed in me is fertilized,
                   And then it draws on me for sustenance
                   Until the poem is fully realized—
                   The progeny of purpose and of chance.

                   The fun of writing is discovery,
                   Not saying something I already know,
                   But revelation of a mystery

                   That only seeking beats and rhymes will show,

                       And if I’m fortunate, the Muse will send
                       What sound and sense I need right to the end.