Writing

Writing for me is at times a pleasant experience. At other times I feel prodded and bullied by ambiguous thoughts over which I have no control. The following poem is about the abstract forces which seem, at times, to come together to create what is hopefully a coherent poem.

Writing


Primal landscape bleak,
Barren and forboding.
Little mouse feet stalking,
Skittering, scrambling, approaching.

From afar, I hear the large ones,
Groan and grumble, curious, cautious,
Snorting, ambling ever closer,
Circling, as before the thunder.

Nuzzling rhymes coo and couple.
Rhythms beat, upbeat, downbeat.
Medium, large and small ones
Form, reform rhyming couplets.

Lines sort, resort into stanzas.
Shuffling, shunting, rearranging.
Rhythm, rhyme align with lyrics,
First is last and last beginning.

Horrid creatures start their scheming
Mutter murmur, screeching, screaming.
Poking prodding meant to taunt me,
Evil thoughts intent to haunt me.

What is it that you know about me?
What weakness causes you to doubt me?
Cacophony, like instruments tuning,
Settles into soulful crooning.

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