I'm wending my way
to the poetry group
trying to frame
from alphabet soup
some rhythmic offering
by way of a change
from shame-faced admittance
"I've nothing"- how strange!
But just as I join them
with something to say

They're doing Haiku

Heavy rain
lets you know
which of your shoes
leak

An observed word
infrequently heard
can isolate
or implicate
the visionary
thin with worry
in a dastardly plot
which will get him shot

In an absurd dream
or possibly a vision
I saw this thin line of words
all lower case
illegible
except for one word
isolated in capitals

It was my name

Tenderly drawing a book
from its place on the shelf
noting the decrepit
state of its spine
pages so yellowed
as to be almost orange

I steep myself
in the tiny print
and antique wording
and pray for the grace
to fathom is depths
and grasp its meaning

Poetic proclivities
or a taste for rhyme
won't make a poet
all of the time

But discussing the subject
revising the plan
makes a prize-winner
from an also-ran

On a painter's easel
is a double portrait
just a sketch at present

The artist feels he hasn't
got the sense yet of his sitters
or of their relationship

What was the grievance
causing such a ferment?
Was there a fracture
behind the smooth facade?

The painter pondered

and went on with his painting