RECIPE

Within a dozen lines of rhyme
Iambic flow
Is the meter

Sixty syllables don't teeter
Eight, four and four
Not a foot more

AABB, CCDD
Not so easy
EEFF

To you I swear fellow word chefs
For words you'll comb
The Minute Poem.

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UP TO LATE WRITING

The pen rests on anxious paper
My thoughts; vapor
And write I try
I'm blank but why?

Perhaps because I try to hard
A void yard,
My brain I comb
For lyrics home.

And where to start, I have no clue
Words, overdue
Dumbfounded; treat!
My poems complete!

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BEACON

Unyielding merciless assault
Sheds its vigor
With no remorse;
Natures challenge

Claiming enduring defiance
Sailors beacon
Shall not stand down
To fury's hold

Beaming light of sanctuary
Rugged and bold
(Like your landscape)
Guide us homeward

~Willard Morash~