DM Babbit Poet Quatrain

I Can'T Play

I can't play with you today,
 too many thoughts slipping in out my head
and the paper and pen are calling for written display;
 a word, a phrase, some grand poetic form to forge ahead.

Go away, stop knocking at my door
 don't call out my name anymore
there's work to be done
 and I'm not allowed to have any fun.

Prose and poetry have blinded me with need
 to reveal the history of feelings and emotion
and if I fall and fail in play, I'll bleed
 with the emptiness of a tidal ocean.

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Old Buck December 4, 2017 at 2:28 PM DM: I understand the feeling, however: since most of what I write is a mere reporting of life, I need to live it before I can write it. :o) I never miss the fun that way. Thanks for sharing this delight with all of us on the soup. Keep them coming. oldbuck

Patricia Cresswell November 28, 2017 at 12:20 PM Dear DM I hope you leave some room for play. Poetry would be awful stuffy without a sense of play. Your poem is about something I have often felt then I do something silly just to balance. Well done.