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  • Connie Anderson

A Poet's Strife

A Poet’s Strife

Two married men sit in a local bar

Tossing down a whiskey and water.

One, a poet, asks, “Water, how can it rhyme,

Unless it’s about your daughter?”

When the idea softly smolders

Because a word is hard to rhyme,

When memory fails and ideas drown–

Make good use of your noodling time.

When words take a deceptive detour

And no matter how hard you try,

Neither snapping, tapping, nor silent prayer

Make the right word appear and apply.

Maybe its time to ask out loud,

Should this poet holster his impotent pen?

Or should he try some prose or insipid jingles–

Or choose to never write a single word again.

Where do wordless poets go to cry

When their words sometimes fail them?

Where do wordless poets go to die?

The dead letter office would never mail them.

Two long-time friends sit in a local bar

Tossing down drinks as smooth as silk.

One, a poet asks, “Silk, what rhymes?

Then mindlessly they order a chaser with milk.

—Connie Anderson


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