The Bard In Me

The Bard in Me

By CBoterweg

I sit in front of my computer.

Thoughts tumbling around like clothes in a dryer.
I know that if I but concentrate they will find their proper places.
Visualize a murder of crows sitting on a fence
rising, settling, rising again.
Vying for places in the pecking order.
The beauty of poetry lies in its
ability to picture a concept
without a brush or palette knife.
There are so many possibilities.
I recall failing to describe a Chagall,
“Serenade” with his horse people
and implacable sensuality. 
More words did not help
only the right words.
If I do not grab them quickly
they slip through my synapses like sand
in an hourglass,
proper order lost, hopelessly, forever.
Yet, who may claim I cannot be a poet?