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.