The Question…

If somebody asks you “Where do poems come from?”

Don’t search for the answer,you’ll never find one

& no one can “get it” till they got it before..

(after years i dont get it, but  I’m still writing more…)

poems sit waiting on clouds in the sky

listening to winds whisper words passing by.

they pop like a bubble without making a sound

And bug you and bug you to write it all down..

No one can hear it – ( it’s all in your mind)

poems are waiting, for someone to find.


~ by connetta on September 9, 2011.

2 Responses to “The Question…”

  1. The grow into little buds, then explode into beauty when your back is turned. They are painted on the wind and hidden in old barns. They live within Connetta and peer out from her camera.

  2. So true, poems are unpredictable – they just show up. When you sit down to write one it is not the same.

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