Sometimes my poetry is a puzzle or struggle;
a challenge overcome, a mystery to be solved.
The word I choose to rhyme with “stomp” or “sell” or “sea”
is an answer to a question in a game of Jeopardy.
Assonance in my tertiary troubles
turns out to be a tool of the trade.
Alliteration also,
and always alluding to Ares and Achilles -
Greek legends, unique, but both bound by war;
not much different from men -
whether writing haikus or taming wolves,
always drawn to bullets and pikes.
The pieces come together.
Sometimes my poetry is a river:
it flows and flows and doesn’t stop until it’s run dry.
Even a mountain won’t stop it;
rather, earthen masses simply split one stream of consciousness into two.
Sometimes my poetry is a painting
I’ve stared at for hours without finishing,
and sometimes it’s an accidental coffee stain
from which I draw my inspiration.
Here or there,
this or that,
my poetry is always the universe of my mind
finding its way into tumultuous reality.