(A ditty for my Indiana pal and fellow poet, Allen Masterson)

Empty as the words I write

—sullen, corny, genius, trite—

feel I on this weary night,

no one knows how bleak it might

Become if I don’t stop this musing

sloppy, choppy, dull, confusing.

Some may find this lark amusing

I can think of better choosing’s

Like a role in gothic book,

and in its pages become hooked

to characters in every nook

and cranny, coming out to look

At my neurosis hid behind

illusions of a pond’ring mind,

whose process seems to stop each time

I try to conjure one more rhyme.

But rhyming—Hey!—that’s what I do,

and I can tell a story too.

Some absurd, but some quite true,

Excuse me—Sneeze!—I’ve got the flu.

To those of you who sought content

instead of blurry lines of vent,

apologies for time ill spent,

I promise change of temperament

In future efforts sure to come

unless explodes tomorrow’s sun

and sends us flying, everyone

in zillion sparks as we’re undone.

Copyright © 2007 Arley Owens, Jr. All Rights Reserved