One’s poetry not always will unfold
beneath its author’s pen as some suppose.
And poetry one is to yet behold
might slowly bloom before one plucks that rose.
At times the lines come breech, the labor hard.
A trial of thought; a repositioning
of words emerging, offspring of the bard!
And then at last, the poet’s heart will sing.
The poet must write always, lest his mind
grow barren, for not always can he know
his muse will be there. She’s not always kind,
but oh, the joy, when verses want to flow!
1/8/13 For Russell Sivey's Poetry About Poetry Contest