Oft on a starry, starry night, I pause to
Think 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 quite troubling.
When you write you leave somethings of yourself
Behind, each or both, your heart, or your soul.
Crunching words and phrases which echo thoughts
May seem easy, but it is not, it is quite difficult.
The reading of combined words is a challenge;
A challenge worth the effort, a time well spent.
Introspection draws effect from the inner self
In ways that today seems much less important
Than yesterday. A day, which seems to linger on
As wine in a barrel does, forever aging, mellowing.
Today's juice will always intensify sharpness
In ways the sour of fresh cheep wine, tastes.
Take now. I am struggling to write on in ways
I would like to be able to freely express myself
With garbled words, of those who write, use.
Words lay around like dead fish on an old dock.
Many size and species of the sea passes over
The smooth surface slippery now from its use.
Harvested or not the oceans continue to pulsate
In their own good time, not too different, from ours.
In verse form is the prose of my intellectual being.
Ronald C. Downie