You know, like dough, a verse needs rest,
before again you wrestle words,
or like a smith you hammer, beat,
to smash the molten into shape.
Now does it sizzle, tip dipped, cool,
or maybe back to furnace heat,
avoid pig-iron, brittle work,
when best is wrought through sweated toil?
If horse to ride its shoes must fit -
when hanging on the stable door,
if luck to hold, the cup side up,
unless its bolted, lettuce crop.
I never know the course it takes,
from metal gate with serif curls,
to furlong race - watch betting slip -
or veggie patch that’s gone to seed?
Our scribe needs space, that yeast ferments,
and time to prove, for crust or slump -
as musing, rise through mystery,
as rising, muse on secrecy.
Though flatbreads have their uses too;
unleavened, signifies a feast.
So who can tell, the poet’s yield,
in giving way, or fruitful field?
Published by Fresh Words, Contemporary Poems Anthology 2022