I once believed in poetry,
forced by blissful, door-locked moments
in my first apartment.
The verses, they were always
sweet and mischievous
handwritten on a yellow pad
after I’d translated each day’s events
into iambic pentameter,
a hand/ upon/ my leg/would be/my muse.
And the result?
A masterpiece.
Sitting there, those hours past midnight,
naive but in love,
thinking
that I would always be able to be still
and intense
with words flowing from my fingertips
like endless eruptions of emotion.
Yet, in my artistic haze, no premonition
or common sense would prepare me
for the summer morning when I put pen to paper
and could/not write/a sing/le line.

I'd write something but i'm drained from the "challenge for you men" thread. But whoa, your gooood. Later>

Thank you, Master

deep within the center
the special place
Waialeale
where the earth cries
a profusion of tropical life
jungle paradise
pouring outward
in all direction
a multitude
of trickling
and gushing
falls