Poetry Machine

Whirr! Clank! Buzz! Clunk! The gears of my brain seize up, No longer meshing. No inspirations, no images appear. No lofty thoughts, ideas Tumbling over each other waiting To be brought to life. No stream of poetic impulses flourishes, No silver verbs or round nouns Slipping into space and place. Just rusty fits and starts That produce only empty noise. Where in my mind is the slipped cog, That word, the missing tooth, The slippery oil of sibilant syllables To lubricate the machinery? Perhaps here, by diligence I can search and find the missing part. I’ll sit and write and write and write Whatever comes to mind. Words, words, words, words That might break free the rusty wheels And release syllabic oil to restore That free-wheeling flow Of passion, wonderment, and awe. That play of script That once poured forth so strong From easy mesh of imagination With its sister, reality. So gears, set to your work. Turn together in perfect sync To change my dusty prose to poetry.