Fascination
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The paper, pure, seductive, sends its call,
Daring me to write immortal verse;
A pencil lies here, neat and magical --
This lure to pen and parchment is a curse!
There is no poem crying for release,
No thought I must express before it's lost;
But in my restless little search for peace
I opened the wrong drawer, and so was tossed
Into the fire of my addiction, which I can
But quell by adding fuel in scanning rhyme.
At length this page is sullied by the span
Of fourteen lines, and I'm safe for a time.
Blank sheets, fresh pens or pencils, trap my mind:
I must write, good or bad. Critics, be kind.
Kay Nanling Michaelson, 1971
Parodic Lines
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This verse we jot:
It clucketh not.
It moves in jerks,
But smirks.
What beast or bird
Is that absurd?
29Aug2000