(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