It’s just a number, 300.
Written at night
When the air turns cold-
Written in love or anger or spite
Written to vent or praise or delight
300 poems mark the way
to 400, 500, or perhaps one a day.
Poetry, simple but sometimes
thoughts of a daughter or parent
or seer; poems about pirates and
Princes of light, rhymes with purpose
or haphazard or trite–
It matters not if the reader is thrilled
It matters only that the truth stay concealed–
The truth about heartache or fear or impossible days
all boiled together with half stewed forays
into quagmires and quick sand
of one’s own free will–a poem will
engulf you or free you or still
remind you that beauty abounds every day
in friends and relations and casual play.
It will lift you and steer you, enlighten
So, 300 moments of one’s inner thoughts–
ridiculous ramblings and monotonous plots
All come together on this night to shout–
“Just a few hundred more and you’ll reach
the recluse, Ms. Dickinson’s spot.”
(Well, not in quality, of course, but in
number of starts.)
So, the goal was 300 and that’s met tonight–
Will I write more? Perhaps.
Why not? It helps sleepless nights.