Grab my hand. Come on,
take me along, and let’s spend
some time together
So long so empty, words a stranger. Now
returned I feel their knock upon my door.
A stage performer takes another bow,
and here she comes to give her third encore.
A thirst for writing blew its desert wind.
I wrote a line but failed at metaphors.
Each time I tried, my writing efforts thinned,
I saw no waves upon the waiting shores.
What would I do to bring my words again?
How would I come to write my poetry?
Melissa’s 20 Lines has been the ken
that opened up the lock box with her key.
And so I find a structure here, a friend
who recognizes gardens we can tend.
Today I’m trying an English/Shakespearean sonnet.
When seizure nears and snaps my consciousness
I fear its claws but no awareness comes.
The math of neurons dictate that there’s less
of me while brain subtracts into the slums.
Its grip now tightens, throws me to the dark
where I see nothing as I spiral down
through churning waters at a waiting shark.
Diminishing, I later find a town
where people speak a foreign language, ask
me questions I can’t answer. Why this place
of everybody’s masquerade and mask?
The cells within my brain discharge, give chase,
soon settle back within their proper room
without explosions like a sonic boom.