An Experiment with Poetry


I’m planting myself 


at the same table—

a 1950’s formica with  

tough aluminum legs—

a dreamy place for the muse 

to find me gazing out the kitchen window

at my neighbor’s red roses 

and white clover.  With

a stub point pen, black (never 

red, I hate a red pen), with

the same pad of paper, and

my bottom in the same chair. 

Whether or not the muse shows,

I’ll be cracking poetry books, 

for good measure, and having

myself a think; but now I’m about it,


isn’t all living like poetry?

Aren’t all life’s tasks about showing up?

Just being there?  The routine, 

a semblance of peace in an otherwise

wild-unpredictable-hostile world?


     Melva Sue Priddy