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North American Dreaming: Found Poem

William Burkholder plucks a poem from the fire of creative thought.

Wind,
Rains,
Sands,
Grains,
Feathers,
Hitting,
My window,

into the fray,
the lark, the jay,

puddles after the storm
shrinking under the sun,
Sister Moon watching
Coughing clouds
hi an empty cup of Decaf,
spilled on the table,
up-turned ashtray and lightening,
peaking through the blinds,
Shit!

A wandering eye
not steering the pen properly
crashing head long into a found abyss of words and melancholic
alcoholic, blue grass stanzas of my dog up and died!
What?
Meandering little non-wise thoughts,
no major emotion here at play
Old Jack Kerouac would be at home with this
or maybe he would take me out back and run a round through me,
calling me a thief of the form.
Just running, running and exercising these fingers across the keyboards waiting for a final
ending to this junk pile of monotonous spontaneous who ha! Who what? Who yaw! Yeah
I write not always well HA!
its a fact, but then again, a hobby, a passion a life style, never mind what you think, its
about this page here and now, mind your own pages strike out and invent, strike out and
explore, take risks, chance, do the dance of the crazy quill man, do it, do it Now. Write it
crazy like your ass was on fire!

**

Do visit Troubadour21 magazine which Bill co-edits www.troubadour21.com

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