Of late, my muse: needy.
A truce or a treaty
it seems is in order.
The flow, rather meager,
unwilling, not eager,
a poetic hoarder.
It's coming and going;
it's fun when it's flowing.
It's frustrating knowing
fatigue has been showing
and output is slowing:
a single oar rowing.
The brain needs a resting,
from rhyming and jesting,
The cells need recharging,
expanding, enlarging.
I'll pause the keyboarding
hop the excavator,
get the engines roaring,
come back again later.
"Will you put something into a file
that we can print out to send with
the cards at Christmas? Won't we
be too busy this year with all the
kids activities at school, church,
and such?"
He nodded an ascent returning
to read John Grisham. He didn't
say he'd already drafted 43 of 48
on the card list a personal greeting.
It was simple as clicking on Word
and keyboarding a holiday message.
Cursive, personal, epistolarian, and a
lost art? He didn't pen each one now
but sat at the PC reminiscing.
Evoking memories of friends, family,
or festivity. Imagine the time it took
with vellum, ink well, quill, and wax seal.
Seasonal Letter
ethernet courtship
seperated by the sea
keyboarding kisses
I sit here on a fine spring evening,
watching as a slight breeze eases the leaves
in the twilight. I am seeking meaning
in a world where a widow, silent, grieves
in Falluja. I sit here keyboarding,
wondering whether to have one more bowl
of ice cream, secure in my wondering,
whether the knee that causes me to howl
and slow my tennis game would get me caught
in cross fire in Tikrit, how I might fare
as a non-violent soul in a land wrought
in hatred. Unwilling to act or care
as I relax for the next morn's travel,
of my complicity in that land's travail.
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