I send my words into the sky
Watch them rhyme and then fly.

I close my eyes and feel the air
Forgotten words lost without care.

I take the letters in my hand
And put them on a poetic stand.

I scribe the words on a starlit scroll
Watch words take shape as night unfolds.

My dreams drift from a soul that bleeds
In the blue of ink, fractured lines freed.

I run my hands over my words
My fingers feel the emotions stirred.

With tender ease, the poetry glides
From my page to your eyes.

163 thoughts on “Finding The Rhyme

      1. Fighting rampant poverty at mirror’s edge; a touch of SE Asia maladies both botanical and actual. (Rocket Propelled Grenade some near-sixty years ago back to haunt my haunts; domestic turbulences – lost wholeness of roof and must rescue books, periodicals, papers and, sadly, some superb snacks under twin waterfalls from the very few days of rains this Winter; and general malaise which afflicts one occasionally when confronted with a lack of nearby doublebock beer to chase away the cravings for some 32-ear-old single malt Irish whisky. (That last only in small jest, Lady Yassy.
        I am still deeply in arrears in my own postings and shudder to feel so remiss for being amiss on checking our doings.. As I just a few moments past stated to fellow Old Fool (and author) Mike Steeden whose tale of Miss April Fool appears delightfully sordid enough to tempt me to read even before “Smexy” star scribbler Shehanne Moore, both of whome inhavind WordPress and are highly recommended: though I’ve yet to yield to temptation and so read their now-reduced to phosphors instead of traditional formerly living trees treated wtih rag-cotton and suchlike.
        I must flee to find out my weather for thenext 20 days and then try to fling forth a few as-et unslung arrows.
        Do the boon of forgiveness, I pray you, Good Lady, for not being as attentive as your worth required. Besides, I have not even gotten ’round to John Coyote Castellenas and his stunning good words. I may have misspelled Castellenas, but while t he rest of me seems tottering my memory insists it is intact. Liar! Not ye! Me!
        I tell beautiful women I encounter – and why wait so long to tell you? – I have an unroyal commission which allows me to tell three lies to any beautiful woman each day so long as I tell t hem first I am going to lie now: and by most unscientific means digital, I’ve yet to have fore than three reply to me query: would you rather I live TO you or lie ABOUT you. So far only one respondent hath said: NEITHER!. Most, so far, have said Lie To Me – rather than About Me. Which I suppose goes along with the current cant.
        But now I must beg off – Steeden, the not-snob, would perhaps suggest I add another “e” and emplace an “r” in “beg.” Oh, yes, Add a “u” too.
        I flee now. Love and best wishes. J


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