words sing a song
a sonnet in my brain
yet my pentameter
is not iambic
more of a wild refrain

as they tumble jumble
bump and grind
it is difficult to
give them their
proper place in line

they all knock and clamor
to be the first in line
ain't but  one of them
that wish to be left behind

so no precise flow, no couplets
not a lot rhyme....even less rhythm
in my writ.....this time

sometimes i can plant
my words in neat little rows
water and **** them til poetry grows
sometimes i put a big seed of thought
suspended over a water glass and
wait til it grows roots
in it's search for love
and meaning

sometimes i just scatter
thoughts to the wind
leave them lie where they fall
and go off and begin other tasks
forgetting  those seeds
til come one day, when
i take a wrong turn
and walk that way
to find a field of riotous colour,
flowers upon flowers
no need for the distinction
of pretty over ****

today i write a torrent a river
that floods with flotsom, jetsom
and other.....
and as these words rush
to the sea, they cry
glory allelui....
i am free....i am free