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The Sunday Whirl, Sunday, June 16, 2013

With little more than moonshine to light my way
I set out for the cave scooped from the mountainside.
With my usual lack of forethought, I take with me what I want
What is needed is not often considered; yet I will get along.
I struggle, without success, to squelch the giggle –
A noise that would split the silence I pursue:
a rolling laugh at my expense makes no sense,
but to begin caring would be the end of me, I make no bones.

Good sense scares me, asks of me too much, cuts too deep.
I could force myself to carry more: wood for fiery thought,
a damp cloth to wipe away froth made by labored iambic pentameter,
but such is well beyond the crazy estimation of my own inner skill.
There is always back to turn, sun to rise, sleep from which to wake.
The chattering of so many well-prepared poets, with pen and paper,
(I should make my fortune selling pencils and erasers). My self-amusement
shatters to dust any well-staged laureate dreams. I can wait.


Excuse me while I wipe my brow. . .I’ve done enough. . .