A Journal

I started this journal at age sixty eight.

Not the norm to be sure,but I just couldn’t wait.

I could have begun it at seventy five,

But I needed to write while I still was alive.

I tried years ago to record days of my life,

As a daughter, a student, a mother, a wife,

Took a journal course once, for a while it did take,

Till no discipline, no urge, no muse would awake.

Then one day insomnia its’ ugly head reared,

A pen grabbed my fingers and verses appeared,

Now that pen floats along, any subject will do,

From old memories, today’s thoughts, to yesterday’s news.

How long will this last? Not forever, I think.

This magnetic pull between paper and ink.

But my hand is not tired, my brain is so wired,

This spell may continue while the cauldron’s still fired.

Does the secret lie in the beat of the verse,

Because prose can’t ignite the spell or the curse

Of writing a journal that’s written in rhyme,

To read all the “somedays” I’m given in time.


Virginia Atkinson


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