Rhyme/meter girl, that’s what I am.
No special gambit in my plan.
Perhaps the meter’s in my head,
Incomprehensible to those who read,
Well, tough! I cannot dwarf the need.
The inner ear just hears it.
Musician too,
Writing from an inner camera, as I do.
Rhyme penchant – chant, cant
Non-sensical or intellectual,
Its pleasured high is oh, so actual,

Why would someone take the time
To write in meter, write in rhyme,
Shape on paper tidbits entering the literary?
Every poet minus, plus
Has some kind of a genius.
What kind of call…why write at all?
Writing is not fighting, it’s exploring,
Learning more within
From references without.
Stimulation of the highest sort;
A sport, perhaps.
Technique and skill with criticising,
Sizing up, refining word, defining order.

Was not poet. Now I am.
The metered rhyme, the aging face
Has given something like a grace,
A grazing grace which feeds on honesty and peace.
Though fears and doubts still hang about,
There is a will to simple thought ,
Abstract conjecture made concrete.
Teeny, tiny, tidbits sweet.

Tidbits 11.19.2020 Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Arlene Nover Corwin

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