By Bryant Williams
Thought I’d write a poem today, but didn’t have a theme.
Had an idea in the night, but that was a fading dream.
Joyce Kilmer said, “Poems are made by fools like me.”
And then he wrote a classic just about a tree.
I play around with rhyming words, but I am not a poet.
When the verses just won’t come, that is when I know it.
In my past attempts I have covered every season of the year,
And written about living on the lake, a place that I hold dear.
Dogs and cats, cookies and grits, past topics close to my heart,
Words about these and other joys flow out once I start.
But now my feeble poetic brain has put itself on hold.
Think I’ll take a nap now, maybe dream up something yet untold.