Oft on a starry, starry night, I pause,
Thinking about the poem I'm apt to write.
Not so fast, a few words, simple it seems.
But, it just isn't so simple, it's troubling.
When you write you leave somethings of yourself
Behind, each or both, your heart and your soul.
Crunching words and phrases which echo thoughts
May seem easy, it isn't, it's difficult.
The reading of the combined words, a challenge,
A challenge worth the effort, time well spent.
Introspection draws from the inner self
In ways that today is less important
Than yesterday which seems to linger on
Like wine in a barrel does, sweetening.
Todays always intensifies sharpness,
In ways the sour of stale cheep wine, tastes.
Take now, I am struggling to write on
In a way I'd like to express myself.
The garble of words, of those who write use,
Lay around like dead fish on an old dock.
Every size and species passes over
The smooth surface slippery from its use.
Harvested or not the oceans pulsate
In their own time not different from ours.
Ronald C. Downie