Sometimes I wake with rosy-fingered dawn
And pen my lines when dew drops grace the lawn
By dusk, when blood-red moon begins to bleed
My sorrow-laden lines I dare not read
Sometimes the poems pour out of my soul,
Released from county jail - out on parole.
Lay low like lines of laughing liberty,
Hysterical to be at last set free!
Sometimes my poems freeze – refuse to flow.
Take root inside me, then mutate and grow.
Until I’m large with child of pregnant prose
These still-born poems, damned, do decompose.
Sometimes, my ink it bleeds, so rhymes are raw
For verse, it grieves for one I knew before
Before fate fed to me, a yearning youth,
Cruel heartbreak’s tried and tested tragic truth
Sometimes when I’m composing all Hell-bent
I miss the words my Muse has Heaven-sent
Replace them with my own to fill the gap
That’s why sometimes I serve such sorry sap!
Sometimes I steal fruit early from the vine
Before the verse can turn to vintage wine
By plucking prematurely rhymes unripe
My scrawl, from sour grapes, will give you gripe!
Sometimes I spring to life at 3.00 am
And conjure up a priceless little gem
A poem, so divine, the angels weep
Then dawn, it breaks, and I can’t get to sleep!
Sometimes I walk the dog, but need to write
I daren’t delay, for words will soon take flight
So tie him up to rail by roadside tree
To pine away, while I poetry
Sometimes my words are shy and hide from me
Like faery folk in sylvan, shady lee
All secret springtime lambs that I have nursed
Naïve as child, in evil, still unversed
Sometimes I wield my pen like wizard’s wand
Breathe beauty to beguile you from beyond
Make magic, Mephistopheles won’t mock
Scrawl stanzas just to stir you up and shock!
Sometimes my pen is quiet as a quill
And sonnets so serene do simply spill
Upon the parchment or papyrus page
Wise words, as well as wonderful, like sage
Sometimes when lines are lean and I feel old
And heart feels froze as arctic wind ice cold
I close my eyes and lisp, like child, a prayer
If no one else, at least my soul is there!
Sometimes I write with water on the waves
And weep for those with seaweed shadowed graves
Whose feet, upon the land will no more tread
I eulogize in tears these ocean’s dead
Sometimes my verse is callous and uncouth
Like jaded juvenilia of youth
That I transcribed when heart was still unbroke
Before I’d stained with tears my poet’s cloak
Sometimes I wish that I could start again
Write for a living by the paying pen
Creating novels fit for silver screen
By Midas Touch, grow rich, but not grow mean!
Sometimes in garret’s gloom the death-knell rings
It’s tolling just for me, while siren sings
On snorting horses DEATH and HELL ride out
Then I awake from dream, so shocked, I shout!
Sometimes I sit dejected in my room
A grieving ghost in garret’s gabled gloom
My ink won’t flow, so stare at empty sheet
But this will pass, so this is not defeat!
Sometimes I write and Heaven touches Earth
And angel’s breath does bless with new-born birth
Pure poems, rich, with rare, romantic rhyme
Inspired by Muse\'s sweetness, so sublime.