Wednesday, July 6, 2016


                    Each morning when I call upon my Muse
                    To ask if she will bless me and enthuse
                    My consciousness with something new to write
                    That’s both insightful and will bring delight,
                    I usually find the goodness of her grace
                    And set off on my poem’s iambic pace
                    Intent to fill a sonnet’s fourteen lines
                    With grace and seeming ease in these confines.
                    The trick is to appear spontaneous
                    And effortless right to its terminus,
                    Each line just like a leaf upon a tree
                    Emerging in its form spontaneously
                         And yet clear evidence that it’s designed
                          By a mysterious creative mind.