Poems are strange

They reach out and grab you,

Begging to be written

When you have nothing to write with.

Finally you gain a pencil,

The poems have fled.

It's like trying to get candy

From an "out of order" machine.

You keep pushing the button

And nothing comes out.

You beat and kick,

Yet the machine sits,

Stubbornly holding it's prize.

You give up and walk away.

Suddenly, down falls the candy.

You snatch it up

And quickly enjoy it's flavor.

Joanna Ballard - April 4, 1979