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A little thing of

a song it is--

composed in keen stanza.

Muscular language

hefts soul-weight,



The union of Creator and poet--

a divine marriage

of meter and image--

birthing glory.

So I jot on,

seeking the mystical union

of starry climes and blotted ink.

But my images stumble,


shapeless shirts in my dryer

spinning round and round.

I grasp vainly,

trying to capture nebulous thought--

burning my fingers on hot metaphor.

Impressive images escape

the tip of my pen nib

where ink enters vibration of thought.

Is such grace intended for me?

Or am I as an appreciative listener doomed,

politely applauding others' gloried imagery

while stifling my own cracked voice,

unable to carry the tune?

--Cassandra Lowery, pen name for Susanne Barrett