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  • The poet paused
    Pen poised in hand
    A wrinkle on his brow
    He’d but to rhyme the final verse
    The only problem

    He’d wrote himself into a corner
    A tight unyielding place
    From which his sole escape relied
    On how he played his ace.

    He had one up his sleeve, you see,
    And was not ashamed to use it
    But like any desperate poet man
    He was careful not to choose it
    Without first considering his options
    And rhyming each of those
    Hearing how they’d sound
    Before on paper he’d compose.

    Blue moon in June
    A crooning loon
    Sang sweetly soft and low
    Come hear my dear
    Please do not fear
    The blackly feathered crow

    Though he is dark
    And fowl of mind and
    Eye-to-eye you glare
    You must not wither
    From his gaze
    But return his baleful stare.

    Then hearken to the trumpets’ blare
    That sounds from towers high
    A wondrous bright uplifting song
    Upon whose notes you fly.
    Photo< El Sueño De San Luca - Oil on canvas- Antonio Gattorno - 1946>
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