words, somedays they elude me
strolling on by, leaving me
standing at the intersection of aphonic and speechless
that’s problematic for a poet
no words, no poem
on second thought, there are words
but not so lyrical or gesticular
not about anything stirring me
just words like a dull knife
unable to make a clean cut into reality
find the muse within
that’s what the poetry cookbook says
since when does betty crocker write poetry?
inner bard, poetaster, rhymester…
all on vacation this morning
even harder to finish a poem
with no apparent reason to be, but
when you’ve come this far
there’s no turning back
for today, mum’s the word
Poetic Alchemist 