Writing Poems
How amazing would it be
if the pencil severed from the tree
found leaded gas stored in that carbon cylinder
number two with script self administered.
Paper and pen, they blend.
The mind and thinking process though
seems held back, hindered, lost and slow.
The key strokes on the other hand
slip slide and mix poetic words hidden, crammed.
Wait and hold, poems will unfold.
It appears at night
that word and phrase finally alight
desperate to be displayed and flow
light and quick as falling snow.
Poise and listen, new poems will soon be written.
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