Thursday, March 17, 2011


That last word, final brush stroke
Ending note, chiselled chip, curtain down
Stitch snipped, trimmed, stand back
On the rack, the wall, the shelf
Guitar case closed, back of the seat
Shoes stowed, tube closed, that’s it
Well maybe, composure?
Composition, a thing from where
Uncertain, don’t ask don’t tell
During the last bar, reference
The last page, anxious birthing
Scooping the last bit from a palette
Cleaning the brushes, another
Picture in there, of this, that
Him with her, her alone, tree
Blues after upbeat, downbeat
In the ear, new notes, from scribbled notes
Another chunk sits in the corner
Something whispers from inside
That blank canvas wags a finger, over here
When you thought this, that comes
The middle of the night, sleep
Dreams, in-between, foggy eyes
See something behind, linger, think
Think that’s it? Squint, boil water
Brew, pencil, paper, eraser, string, pluck
Key stroke, note on keyboard, reboot
Some may scream make it stop, cease
Desist, resist, roll over, but one fell out
No longer in the bed
And the little voice says
Composure? Later, maybe.

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