I was planning to write today.
But I talked, and talk got in the way.
I search for stories, something to inspire
But it seems all the tall tales are lost in the myre.
Anecdotes, like dust motes, can drift with the breeze,
And for some the words come with a natural ease.

For me words arrive with rhythm and rhyme,
But in no special order; they don't stand in line.
Mumbled and jumbled its hard to pick and choose.
And my mind emerges; battered and bruised.
They don't stand on ceremony; they don't mess around
With their speedy advance like a great wall of sound.

I try to be measured, thoughtful and slow,
But my hand can't keep up and leaves illegible prose.
I shake the page, try to wring out some sense
Like panning for gold I look for recompense.

Hold on.
A nugget.
Here,
And there.
But it's me; I get distracted.
And they get lost somewhere.