by cricketjeff on February 5, 2010. © Jeff Green, All rights reserved
As drops the size of marbles start to fall.
Umbrella-ed fools start weaving through the crowds,
Pretending they’re not getting wet at all.
My fingers wait for inspiration’s touch,
My screen accuses me of idle waste,
While honeyed words avoid my eager clutch,
The scenes outside bequeath a bitter taste.
The sky transforms in every ghostly hue,
A rainbow doubles brightly overhead.
Internal critics rant “You’ve not a clue!”
They cannot wait to tell me I am dead.
When beauty such as this holds no delight,
Who but a fucking fool would try to write?
What could be freer than a sonnet?
8 Count by Charles Bukowski
from my bed
on a telephone
one is left,
my typewriter is
and I am
reduced to bird
just thought I’d