Tuesday, August 20, 2013


The hardest part of writing is staring at the blank page with no ideas.  After I get a line, a rhyme, a homophone, or something to begin, it's not so bad.  Some weeks I come up with something I like.  A lot of the time I find myself writing without a great deal of satisfaction other than keeping the tools sharp, so to say.

In any case, this week's efforts keep sharp the tools of basic rhyme and meter.


I biuld a monument
For things that had passed through
A shifty gust
A migrant moth
A memory of you

And resting on the top
In Western-facing view
A followed whim
A brief embrace
A timpani of two

I built this edifice
Of sand and dusk and dew
For melted wax
For ended songs
For shifting motes of blue

The tide comes rolling in
To claim what rites it's due
My monument,
My sacrament
I knew it would pass too

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