A hustle and bustle can flutter a mind.
My odes had meandered, contrary opine.
A blockade obdurate of words unrelenting,
I longed for pure notes, my poems forgiving.
For life’s aps and its raps had taken my soul,
Page one and leaf two, a poetical toll.
Bright sharps and rich flats were what I forsook.
A nonmusical poem is an un-chanted book.

I’d heard of a town, somewhere in the hills.
A Eureka Springs Colony, a place for my skills.
To spend moment to moment penning words of recover,
For truth in composing just there for my pleasure.
To aid in the crafting and marshaling my work,
In rural complacency, a pivoting rock.

Before lodging my zone, I ventured outside,
Down canopy lane, a wondrous confide.
Puffy white clouds, their faces looked down,
One little nose almost touching the ground.
Inspiration came from those puffy white faces.
A cascade of rhymes tumbled down in wide traces.
The trysts of the mists in fastidious detail,
Like a shower in a meadow, plodding down a sweet trail.
So many grand lines surprised at the treat.
A layered bow vibrant just could not compete.
A living world dwells in these words we beget.
I wrote them down quickly so as not to forget.

I’ll always remember my time in the Springs,
Where musical rhymes were like poetical strings.
Next year I intend to lengthen my stay,
With my mind in the clouds each and every day.