Some days the poetry
Races out of me
Like buckshot.
The day strikes,
Either through mischief or intent,
And the images swarm
Like a horde of wasps
Or an explosion hurling shrapnel
In all directions.
My words are ordinarily
A docile herd,
Easily driven at a slow dusty pace.
But not today! I am skittish from electric air
That blinks and booms in a lightning flash,
Stampeding all my thoughts
Out of reach.
Then for days I'll gather
All the strays back -
Those I can find.
Your poem breathes such verve into the 'docile herd' - this flock of fun phrases soars far beyond those mediocre murmurings. Thoroughly enjoyable, and oh so true! S ;)
This is a very good description of how the words we write come to us. Poetry is just that; a flash of lightning and if we don't write it down right away, it seems to leave forever. Thank you for sharing this with us. A 10+++++. Love & hugs, Barbara
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Fantastic imagery Lillian. I can almost see the words firing in all directions. I hope to experience more of those buckshot moments in my own writing!