Words milling and spilling, filling my head
verses in cursive, together I thread.
Haiku, senryu, loops, quarter lunes
rispettos, rondels, tankas, pantoums
I choose a style, write off the cuff
monostich poems just never enough.
Rhyming and timing, sunsets, fresh snow
flowers and showers, people I know.
I write of warriors, rising again
a mother's love, warm Sunday rain.
Travels unravel, injustices shamed
dogma and prejudice, hatred ingrained.
So ask me again, why do I write?
Gather my thoughts, bring them to light?
We may be stirred by words that we've heard
I scrawl to recall this life, undeterred.