If you were my morning guest
you might see excitement dawning,
or if you could magically slide inside my head
absorbing juicy tidbits, as if a dry sponge in the desert sun,
seeing first-hand how my free verse is done....
My day, surrounded by stillness, begins.
Sometimes starting out gray, then turning brighter,
as if I can dial up just the right amount of daylight for warmth.
Mind swirling within a current thought,
or tiptoeing around a harsh memory, at times,
I lightly caress a deep feeling that trickles
like a small stream beginning a downward flow.
Keyboard set, coffee cup brimming,
my well-worn Webster's near, I let words begin spiraling
upward from deep within my soul onto the page.
Word images, bloodred when read,
harsh memories can bring a tear,
words creating an ebb and flow,
a tension, pulling the string taut on a longbow,
while adding a touch of yin and yang,
send a pause for the reader to consider...
this or that.
Like adding a bit of zest when preparing a feast,
I drop in a poetic device or two,
interwoven like delicate lace then add a touch of gold or silver
for a well-constructed piece.
Tossing in assonance creating the effect despair,
as in the ripping open my heart for love gone asunder...
something we might share in common.
If welcomed into the verse, I might sprinkle in a dash of onomatopoeia,
As in a cuckoo when the sweet bird's refrain is heard at the top of the hour.
Then pausing for a day or two, I leave the words to stew
wanting the verse to subtly intice you.
When I read and reread the written tome,
perhaps massage a stiff word in a stanza or more,
I then make the decision....
Is this good enough to serve to you?
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