One problem with word-wrangling
Is that once the words are written down
Dragged out from mind to page
They vanish from the memory
Like a camera-free holiday
Full of fleeting summer clouds
Becoming instantly forgotten
If anyone were to ask me
So it comes as some surprise
When I find them later
And I begin to wonder
Who wrote this stuff
When it was me
Another problem with word-wrangling
Is that before the words are written down
Passed from thought to scribble
They dance around the forebrain
Like a jam jar-entombed wasp
Causing sleep to stay at bay
Worrying they will be forgotten
And dashing to grab notebooks
So it comes as no surprise
When I find them later
And I begin to wonder
Who wrote this stuff
What does it say
Martin A W Holmes, June 2017
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