One Two, Write A Shoe

Vintage Words


The poetic mind is a terrible

thing to taste, the flu virus

has nothing to do with

either the fevers of the lyric,

the coughed out cadence, or

the wheezing necessity to find

the word, the only word

possible for the perfectly

possible line.


Makes the chest hurt reading

the lines out loud. Sweat

from poetic pores stymie

the creativity if not swiped

away and stored.


Ballad writer, ballad singer,

ballad is the only way. Tellings

and twistings, pounded

into shape, cut like cookies

in many flavors.


Short in length or long

in length, the stride is still

the same. Like a furnace

thumping on in winter

where as the temperature drops

and only the feelings of warmth

or despair or love arrive

to end the shiver.


Peace is like writing poetry,

Its own reward. The last parade

before the ending becomes

the last truly real event. The

troops come home, broken

and tired, standing in yesterday

mirror hoping a poem will come,

a catchy tune, a ballad for being

out of harm's way.


So I sing and sing or write

it down and make it float

as if my fingers were a guitar

and imagination the strings.







Author's Notes/Comments: 

After a re-reading of Wallace Steven's Blue Guitar ~allets




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Riddle's picture

As if my fingers were

As if my fingers were strings.. Loved it!

allets's picture

Edited Lines

Like The Blue Guitar by Wallace Stevens - the jangling of the strings - Thanks for stopping by.




Lady A