Writing poetry, one hundred forty
syllables, ten or so beats to a line.
Fourteen lines. eight and four or twelve and two
the turning in the middle, there somewhere.
You can talk blue sky as long as you want,
the rivers can ramble, the heart can break,
the great gods may confound your epic quest.
All that is fine. It flows onto the screen
Or onto the paper from your fav pen.
Lines of iambic pentameter, free!
Pouring down your arm to your fingertips!
The sky, your heart broken, the river’s rage
At the end, when reader and poet leave,
Both of you holding hands like a sonnet.
I have an alternate ending but this one feels like the better. (As always, these are first draft or slightly edited.)