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The Poet’s Prayer

Poetry is just consonants and vowels.
Mostly it’s like crapping when you don’t want to.
Muse, move in a mysterious way within my bowels.

Poetry is just thoughts tricked out in lines.
It’s like watching for shooting stars in August.
Lord, let me not be blinking when one shines.

Poetry is just management of stress.
On wonderful days it’s like taking dictation.
God, grant me such days more often, and the others less.

Audio file

Listen to this poem — read by the author