then walked away
wondering what there
is to say that hasn’t yet
been said, wishing
for that electric spark
I once felt, putting words
to page and questioning
existence futile attempt
at reasoning what logic
can’t explain other than
to pick up the pen and start
again and again until dam
burst and words flood, a
line I’ve already used
but an eraser doesn’t work
with ink and the delete key
not much help when you
wander through a poem
like walking a creek, each
pebble worth noting, if
even for a moment you
forget and I remember
why I write when I hear
poets at the mic but can’t
recall what exactly I have
to say other than to write
about writing, ars poetica
better than nothing on a rainy
summer morning, listening
to patter on roof and watching
mandalas on surface of pond,
marveling how time has passed
and years slid by when I was busy
writing, making, creating, inventing
with energy I must summon,
knowing days are few and universe
expands in hours lost and found
when work is good and time
is forgotten, an experience I crave.