Jean Marble Poet Villanelle

Rhythms Falter

My fingers hover half a breath 
from harvesting a budding storm  
but rhythms falter, unimpressed 

beneath word-tides I would possess 
and drown in squirming moons to mourn.
My fingers hover half a breath, 

my listless pen held limp at breast 
in hope my muse might be reborn 
but rhythms falter, unimpressed. 

Insatiable the emptiness 
I can not fill with rhythmic scorn.
My fingers hover half a breath

so tempted by poetic quests
that leave them damp and hiccup-worn
but rhythms falter, unimpressed.

Unquenchable, the thirst for depth,
the prick of penetrating thorn
My fingers hover half a breath
but rhythms falter, unimpressed.

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