Dim lamp light casts
a poetic dance of shadows
from the corner of my
quiet office space
tracing words neatly
in my scribe's notebook
I rassle the pen skillful
to print.

I notice my paced breathing
holding back ever so carefully
the cowering anticipation
of the haunting lull
a writer dreads in times
of fevered inspiration.

My handwriting is strong
and simple, neat and tempered
but I soon expect the sneak
of the serpent scrawl to
wrap around my wrist
and pull me in tighter to
the tempo of a poet in heat.

I brace myself and breathe
deeply, purposefully I release
a humming hush of air
from my loose lungs.

I tend to tap my right foot
to the beat of a silent drum
rarely in rhythm with my
right writing hand.

Here comes the scrawl
I feel I can't control
Is it lack of strength
or the sheer thunder
rolling thoughts on paper??
I think it is a little bit of both

Where are you dear
fellow poets in your
casting hour??
Conjuring up words
to share our wants,
needs, fears and doubts
so perfectly
...or not....

The point is in the
actual act itself
isn't it??