The Fruitless Garden

by Valerie Bush

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One day last week I arose

With an urge to scribe some prose.

On that day, I did endeavor

To craft a poem awfully clever.

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Munching, crunching my fruit loops,

I decided in one fell swoop 

The garden is the place to be

To ponder word choice carefully.

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Surely, phrases that I prune

Will have this writ by half-past noon:

Iamb, couplet, simile, verse.

Rhyming sound is less coerced.

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The day stretches and conspires

With the sun, as she climbs higher.

Lost still is my inspiration –

My sole reward is perspiration.

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Words, they fight me, tooth and nail.

Come on, brain, we mustn’t fail!

Swirling, spinning, it’s just no use:

These thoughts of mine are quite obtuse.

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Ideas, they surface to the top

Then dive again – they just won’t stop

Bouncing, bobbing – they can’t break free.

Oh, my goodness! It’s half-past three.

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Thoughts, they stretch beyond my reach.

Next time, I should hit the beach:

Writing poems might be much finer

Watching dolphins and large cruise liners.

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Words still dancing in my head –

Please get out; it’s time for bed.

The day ended, this chapter closed.

It is obvious I suck at prose.

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The time has come for me to pray;

Tomorrow starts another day.

My failed attempt at prose is done;

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Tomorrow starts another one.

Perhaps haikus are best for me?

Poems try to rhyme.

Haikus don’t care about time:

Three lines are sublime.

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