I strum my grief

& pluck one-liners

~riffing beats~

as I define

/ a life in leaf /

my story time…

in bits-so-sweet

until decline–

there never was a prelude finer–

worth a sonnet

and a shiner.

Through a reed &

with some weed

I blow my smoke

in piping…

oboes, flutes,

kazoos that toot

to mellow

bellowed griping…

My odes

unload!

My poems

come home!

My villanelles unveiling–

in measured chord

dynamic score

of trial’ing & tre’vailing…

For mortal wounds

the gizmo used

is full on Philharmonic,

no poem

but tome

–a fiction long–

subverts

the hurt to tonic…

As lullabye

may I imply

to me all words

are music

witty, ditty

>even shitty<

can sound pretty

when I choose it.

©Karen Robiscoe