Last night I dreamt of a brass door.
It keeps playing on the edge of my memory.
Teasing me
Asking me to open it.
But when I look at it it goes away.
All I can do is stare at it
In my mind.
I am powerless.
The orange robe of the
Tibetan monk sits firmly
In my mind.
Standing there in the ancient field
Naked except for the robe.
He stands there by himself

*I’ve been trying to do more creative writing lately and to move me in that direction I like to look at stuff I’ve written in the past. Here is something I looked at this morning that, apparently, I wrote in December of last year. I kinda like it, so I’ll share.

the exercise comes from a really great book on poetry writing called “Writing Poetry From The Inside Out” by Sandford Lyne.


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