Monday, November 21, 2016


                    My dreams fly off in tatters when I wake,
                    Reality then sweeping out what’s fake:
                    The daylight world’s no place for fantasy,
                    Not airy dreams, but hard reality.
                    Yet shortly after dawn, I may still glimpse
                    Some vestiges of dreams that give me hints
                    Of something I might turn to poetry
                   That out of airy nothing comes to be.
                   The Yin of night and Yang of day conspire
                   To gratify this poet’s fond desire
                   To exercise godly creative power
                   And make an artifact within an hour
                   That may endure until eternity—
                   And one of those I pray that this may be.