An Ancient Stab at Poetry

3/27/2007, 7:19 a.m. Date created.

I don’t know why I don’t write more poetry. It seems everyone is doing it.

Perhaps I’m afraid of flooding the market with useless ramblings or feeble attempts at rhyme or weak sestinas or epigrams. I suppose I could write poetry all day until I burned out or got bored. Such is overdoing any one craft. 

Nonetheless, here is an attempt I made way back in 2007 to be poetically creative. 

Mozart’s Catacombs

In the pre-dawn hours
I dig through the catacombs
For something to write
Who am I?
What am I?

Guidelines send me awhirl
Down the vortex and up again
The choice of words
Cutting edge?
Metered Rhyme?

Or should I keep familiar
Witty quips
Fantasy escapes
What words fit?
Which ones work?

Something white bread soft
A choice once so easy
Now so complex
Who am I?
What am I?

I can keep it safe
Metaphors and clichés
Bedtime stories and morality plays
Who is the narrator?
What is the theme?

Or I can go over the top
Madness and mayhem
Fusion and futility
Madness approaching
Genius achieved

I need to start again
Dig deeper into the vault
Turn the box inside out
Who am I?
What am I?

In the end
I close the drawer
There never was an answer
Silent echoes
Empty paper

Leaves are falling
Time is passing
Allusions and Illusions
What was the point?
What does it matter?

Mozart’s delight has turned
Sour with the morning light
It seems I will never know
Who am I?
What am I?