You need to write a
sonnet, the voice says.
I don’t want to write a sonnet, I growl.
Snow falls on far
mountain where the monk prays.
I’d rather sit and watch the Cotton Bowl.
The brown leaf falls,
blows away like lost love.
Writing makes me sweat. Memory brings pain.
Remember when she
left, but dropped her glove?
I wrote about that once. Please…not again…
The river flows like
feeling, vast and deep.
C’mon! That’s a hackneyed image. Get lost!
The woods are
lovely…promises to keep…
Stop! You’re plagiarizing! That’s Robert Frost!
The nuke blast ignites
us to black resin.
No! Not war! I’ve…black resin…Where’s my pen?
Roger Armbrust
August 27, 2016
