Thursday, April 24, 2014


(Poetry Scales 6)

Art sat at his desk starring at the page
askew on blotter; pen cradled in hand,
deadline looming fast.
Struggle as he may he couldn’t resist
the lull of the void, the white of the blank,
a yaw of expanse.
An hour or so into his work (or
inactivity) he began to feel
a pull… a tug.

Flailing for a grip on handles of drawers,
tiny worthless nobs, Art grasped and he clawed
but soon realized that all was in vain.
A moment in time unfolded in awe,
an hour or so contained in a beat
with full clarity of what he could’ve scrawled.
That was not to be.
Inevitable, head-first, and sudden
he fell… and snap!

The Escritoire burped… and grinned.

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