Wonder Struck

The Center Of A Tulip. By-MFB III

 

What wonder granted

me this tantalizing view,


that allows me to

capture words

from the endless

hurry-scurry 

of my world.

Holding each

restless possibility

in my mind,


till they roll

off my tongue,
in a syncopated

melody that moves me


to pen restless verse 

like wild animals.

Expressive spirits

giving voice,


snarling within

a white rectangle,


formed from the
pulp

of long ago dead trees

I have never climbed.

How does the

center of a tulip


compare to any

common adjectives,

 
and yet my hand

flies in a blur,


and poetry blooms.

Are war and love,

simply fodder


for the mind of

a wordsmith?


It is often fed

in poor taste-


or suckled in

heated fervor,


consumed by

the hunger for

self-manifestation.


What well do

we draw from

 
when we compose

endless, thoughts

poured out,


for others eyes

to drink from?

It matters not,

for this blessing


needs no rhyme

nor reason;


it simply is

my take on life


and oh, how

I delight in


stealing from

my needy muse.



Walt, he had the Whit, man,
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
perfected the seering
of her food for thought,
and I have the art,
tis why I breathe.

 

©MFB III

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