Monday, August 1, 2016


                   I start each day being placid and serene,
                   By sitting in my half-cocked easy chair
                   With eyes half closed and mind both calm and keen
                   While waiting for a subject to declare
                   Itself as promising for poetry—
                   Some item from the news or past event
                   Still vibrant and alive in memory
                   Perhaps aroused by a delightful scent
                   (As was the case with Proust), or by a note
                   I’ve scribbled in the night while still in bed
                   Or by some mastermind’s provoking quote
                   Or by an article I’ve lately read,
                       And nearly always something comes to mind.
                       No masterpiece, but something of this kind.