I thought it appropriately ironic, given a wee dry spell, to re post a poem about…dry spells.
what is it I hear?
aloof and snooty, snubbing all who dare seek her way
sorting, one from another, lines dubious.
I look her way probing for
drawing upon wells long dry oceans of dust
and cracks wearily worn upon my inner brow.
pondering the profound I pander to cliché
coaxing genies from bottles invisible.
I long to taste Dionysian delights
but spew forth non-existent pleasures,
rhyming Morpheus himself to death.
wait I longer for words unheard
grasping for what refuses bit or bridle, lilt and song?
the mind yet uncaptured reels against itself
pursuing that which is beyond the chase
but, in the pursuing, doubles back to find…