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Poem

I wander in the wonderland of words
where sounds can rhapsodize an inner flight
and seek to sing like skylark midst the birds.

To feel a lyric line is ringing right
that rose unknowingly from secret source
can send my senses soaring with delight.

What guides the reasoned rhyme’s creative course?
the urging of an enigmatic muse?
or might it be a fundamental force?

The words may dance or promenade in twos,
at times leap forth as in a lightning flash,
or shower phrases in prismatic hues…

When glimmers come but embers turn to ash,
there are no syllables with tongues of flame
nor tones that thunder like a cymbals’ clash.

Then I despair and falter in my aim
of catching rainbows in a verse’s net
and cry I should forsake the poet’s game.

Still oft before the dying sun has set
arises hint of inspiration’s spark
albeit faintest flickering, and yet

from out of what had seemed a moonless dark
is heard the distant music of a lark…


~ Harley White

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