Thursday, July 28, 2016


                   I write to find out what is on my mind:
                   I don’t know what I think until I see
                   What I’ve to say and where my thought’s inclined,
                   Until which, it remains a mystery—
                   Especially so when I compose a verse,
                   Engaged with finding rhymes and hitting beats
                   Which somehow make my memory disburse
                   A happy phrase as good, perhaps, as Keats’,
                   And, if a sonnet, then it heads for home
                   Too late to bring up any new concern,
                   No room to let imagination roam
                         Because we’re at the couplet now and must
                         Make do with one last rhythmic, rhyming thrust.