The Spark


My poems arise from a chair.
At least I’m always sitting in one
when verse springs from my fingers.

I circle the plush recliner
three times before resting
in her embrace, like a dog
about to lie down for the night.
I burn incense
and perform oblations,
daily rituals of reverence
for her inscrutable knowledge
of what to whisper
into my waiting heart.

When my poems are badly written
I flog myself for having offended
the worn, upholstered repository
of beauty, for I have heard amiss,
dishonored my oracle
by inattention.

Or maybe flaccid stanzas
punish my lack of vigor
in challenging my wife’s mutterings
about throwing her out.

I shall defend
my sweet muse
in this slow war
of attrition.


6 thoughts on “The Spark

  1. Each time I read one of your poems, I see a little movie in my head – I love the verbal and visual stimulation. Thanks.

    My writings (not poetry) seem to arise from my car, which is rather difficult…

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