Writing for me
is not an art but
a discipline that
requires time
and the right
frame of mind,
some coffee,
and a clear desk
(okay, I’m a little
OCD).

A sip, a prayer,
a good fountain pen
and the juices
begin to flow.
Then the cat jumps
in my lap just as I
get in a groove
and progress ceases
as the purrs set in.

She’s ambivalent,
even indolent
until the gods
or vagaries
that rule my
creative processes
come together
then she jumps
in my lap and
is my anti-muse.

She always times
it just right
so that a few
minutes with her
and the purrs
get me off track
for an hour
or more.

Here she comes
now
and
there
goes
my
writing
for another day.

Coffee prices
on the rise
double digit
inflation.
A headline
reads:
Is it the
beginning
of the end?

Must we face
the apocalypse
in a state of
withdrawal?

I sit out back
and listen
to the sounds
of a heavy
bass beat
from across
the street
and birds
singing
high soprano
in the trees
but all I hear
is Beethoven’s
Sixth:
da dahdah dah da
da dahdah dah da
dah da…dah da