20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers

To Write: A Rondeau

To write is mining gold from wells down deep
in earth. The treasures hide their faces, sleep
away from light. Advancing from my place,
approaching caverns of the words, I pace
my steps, climb fences, sometimes have to leap,

or even tiptoe, hushed. Sometimes I creep
around the edges of the caves and trace
the entrance with my eyes. I see the space
where writing mines its gold in wells down deep.

They’d scurry if they heard me in my Jeep.
Now cautious, I swing down, I slide and sweep
along stone walls, soon coming to the base.
I hear words partying. O, will some race
to open doors for me, to let me keep
them? Writing’s mining gold from wells down deep.



The Cave

Sometimes I wonder what else I should write.
Where are the mines I’ve not tapped into, bright
with diamonds? Are they far too deep to chip
with chisel? Ready, hand upon the grip,

I go spelunking in the cave of words,
hoping to find them plentiful as herds
of cattle on a hillside. In the dark
my eyes adjust. This place, austere and stark,

fills me with mystery, a kind of dread:
Do I possess ingredients for bread
that satisfies? Do my words hit the mark…
or are they swallowed by my muse’s shark?


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