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sometimes I sit
fingers poised, hovering
afraid to fall inadequate upon these keys
you may think my muse has left me
may think I scratch at a dry creek bed
searching for a drop of an idea
something to turn this glowing blankness
into something glorious
praying to turn this pulsing cursor of expectation
into a limp and breathless marker
satiated with the explosion of grandeur
you may think I am drying up
dehydrated and uninspired

but you would have it wrong
not thirsting
but drowning
eyes to the heavens fearing the onslaught
evident in the heavy skies
clouds pregnant with the thoughts shrugged
ideas shaken
images blinked and batted free
like the early drops from an eminent hurricane
mindfully tossed from shoulders and lashes
while the tossing is still possible

the storm is that of ideas gathering in the heavens
a thousand images forming full and fragrant
stories too ripe not to be told
mind pictures leaking in rainbow ribbons
trying to lure the unaware
escaped words gather on awning scallops
hanging heavy with double entendre

and I sit with shaking fingers
not for fear I can not write
but because I should
because I know I am that opening
the sky is looking for

It’s Open Link Night at dVerse ~ Poet’s Pub. Pull up a stool and sit a spell.

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