Culinary Arts school. French vocabulary. Sharp knives.

The Inner Writer September 1, 2010

Filed under: 1 — ronibird @ 9:01 am

I think up rich words–

Envision them falling neatly

Into place, these orderly herds

Sensing my inner wish and meekly

Doing as I bid, no protest


I see myself lay aside pen

Fingers marked black with ink

And sigh in satisfaction when,

Imagined readers sink

Into lines suddenly alive


In mind’s eye, words neatly slotted

Shift and blur on this parchment

They become a landscape dotted

With images to breathe fantasy, lent

Briefly.  Transport from the safe and sane.


Looking down on my work in hand

I resolutely write, rich words

They struggle, mustering to stand

In battle.  Free winging birds

They scatter and shatter my scene


With sighs, I observe my weary page

That traitor, mercenary army

Has conquered.  Cautious, I gauge

Their mood, with bribes lure back to me

These words, too brilliant to rule


I cannot neatly push in place

The wildness of imagery

That whirls behind my writer’s face

But fractious as all words may be

I still grasp this final symmetry.


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