Poetry’s Process

  

It’s a risk

It’s a ruse

A blank page

A clear muse

Bright inspiration and clarity’s joy

Or

Doom’s mean onslaught 

The dread envoy?

Left behind

Out of favor

To a fresh new line’s

Redeeming flavor

Cropped quick verse

To then make way

For languid lines

Ling’ring and stayed

Sometimes vain

sometimes mushy

Sometimes woefully, painfully gushy

A see-saw

A soup

A fringe benefit

Stunning dupe

A nice refrain?

A well-timed bridge?

A sacred hymn?

A sacrilege?

A melodious word

A remembered song

To

Moody’s ebb’s

Great noisy throng

A major 5th

A minor 7th

A lovely 3rd 

Or dismal eleventh

(Chip away

Let it stream

Time spent so rich

AND up to me)

Words fill my head

They liberate me

Then elusive and fierce

They defeat me

Swirling sparks

Fire grows and grows

‘Til the words are spilt

And the coals burn low