Poem #85 of 365

Some days I got words at my beck and call
and others, well some days I can't summon
any word at all. And it's not always the
words that stimey, it's the combination
thereof, the thematic constraints, the urge
to make sense, to sensitively connect the
verbs and the vowels, make my fingers
speak as a gardening trowel, digging beneath
and deep in the dirt to exhale and expel the
the story to tell. A spun little yarn
of my choosing, of living and dying, of
winning and losing. What to share and what
to reveal, how much of my memory is locked
under seal?

I want to not waste the moments I spend pecking
keys on a board, and lastly, but not leastly, this
space that I hoard, here on this page, I don't want
it ill-used like a key in a cage, I want it substantial
and radiant and relevant, not leftover
junk, idle white elephant.

I must earn my readership, spur rereads of the
words I write, cuz I want them to savor every
passage, every byte. Not one verb will be extra,
I'll delete the superfluous noun, if I work hard,
unceasingly, these lines might grow profound.



copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez