Sleep is the ultimate denial
Afforded me these days;
A sort of fated daily trial
I fail so many ways
And I would give up trying, but
My body craves, you see,
Some rest and ease to last, somewhat:
But it’s just not
To be
(Note: the photograph is not that of the author – Owen)
Blogging makes me so much money
That I bought a whole new house;
People think it’s kind of funny
Living here, and — hunting grouse —
WordPress is so lucrative that
I’ve decided to live large:
I’m halfway to fat and happy,
Hack poetic man-in-charge —
Blogs are cash cows in this cent’ry,
Just like owning ice machines —
So I’m with the landed gentry,
Mansioned almost-human
Beans
goodbye…
no more trial,
no listening through doors,
no penitence from unthawed hearts:
spring hill
Recall…
An autumn spent
In playing there at love
It isn’t a surprise it’s called
The fall
She brings alive the spring, gives summer, heat
Makes autumn blush, and regal winter, pale
She lightly tells the truth, and shuns deceit
And leads to wonder like
a slow unfolding tale
The primary domain of her existence
The natural, the loving, and the weird
I advocate for her, with some insistence
As seasons, glorious,
are there to be revered
“My excuse for writing…, notwithstanding, is merely the human excuse which every new poet has for writing about the spring. ”
Excerpt From: George Santayana. “Three Philosophical Poets.” iBooks. https://itun.es/us/dF_QE.l
bring me order, please
