What sets the place of commas
as from this fluent pen does fall?
What strokes the pause in thinking?
What dries the ink past question’s call?
Who pokes the sudden image
into the static matter, grey?
Who sets the syllables in line there,
before the truth, as hand paints lay?
Who feeds the silent horses
in wait to craft an image dear?
What stands the milk to crème
that brings the poet’s thoughts to clear?
When is that time for writing
where eyes watch hand take pen to task?
What time is it when landing ink
colorfully paints a recalled past?
How can it be these diverse things
call summing into moment’s hold,
that in one fractioned second spin
scant letters into gold?
Who is the muse of ethos
that keeps the meter bound to clay,
so guides the subtle shaping of
the image felt and cast to lay?
Here are my moments stolen
when from my day my pen takes hand.
Here is the wild ride, in crafting
what I know not comes to band
the ether’d thoughts in floating,
the melding of what’s known, unknown,
the growing of a story
from the clips of life my past has shown.
I ride without a payment,
no penny here have I,
but cast my journey sacred
and never think to wonder why.
This is my blessing, this is my curse,
and tho’ I ride with empty purse
I feel the gift is gold!
… and selfishly I’ll return to ride
until I’m just too old.