my thoughts today are not inspired
no deep emotions stoke the inner fire
no image scampers out across the page

the world bursts in with wings and horns
distracting me, declaring I’m no poet
all my hopes bereft, forlorn

poems are made of dancing words
delicious words that tumble out
marked with flows and rhythms

they skitter-scatter on the page
they fascinate, seductive
they have power and strength

imposing form upon it
an ode, a ballad, sonnet
I try to see connections
until they find direction
seeking out….
what’s that word?….
ah yes – perfection