mists of fabled avalon
bubbling up toward my lips
flowing toward my finger tips
“i feel a poem coming on”
at least i hope
what might come out
is not an insult to the air
not a plague upon the pen
within this garden of ideas
aviary of imagination
no roof but the open sky
beckoning for soaring high
panning the stream
of consciousness
searching for a tiny fleck
craving even one faint speck
a prospector of poetry
see bees as powerful as trees
this tea more potent than it seems
its leaves been steeped in dreams
panning the stream
of consciousness
enamored with the sandy black
not attached to shiny gold i lack
swim in the gilded river
each rock a precious dream
while fish and reeds sleep
in shadows of the deep
