Some Poems

Some poems’ births explode (full bore), life ends when written down, their flow makes toothpicks of my pen, brain chokes on truth laid bare, a flash that flares, a splash of cognac in cook’s pan (taste’s light!) While others grow more leisurely, gestation delicate, they lead me through more sylvan glens (where shadows live - a thing) and beams of light dance as leaves drift until thoughts’ breeze gets spent. I covet both but give free rein to muse that pays day’s rent for fear I’ll miss a gift life shares, perchance a golden ring! I rarely guess a poem’s end; I’m more its advocate and track my muse the best I can until day’s touched by night! My heart is this, to offer grace to fancies muse may dare embrace, hold dear. Lord, I feel blessed to be my muse’s clown. Krakatoa Kritic #007 December 7, 2022