I’m writin’ all this poetry,
my soul doth wax poetic,
but re-reading, seems to be
a mental diuretic.
Words rush out and find collision
at the gates of brain,
and in their mad indecision
shout to all that I’m insane.
I need them to get organsed,
rank and file, and toe the line,
and not rear back, shocked and surprised
at some rhyming Frankenstein
whose giant mudswept stomping boot
has some new message to impute.
Music from Burt Bacharach, with Something Big. Why not?
I do try to answer each comment in a timely fashion, but with Internet providers really stretched, I have only about half of the access I once did. Please bear with me!
Thanks to Carol Ashby, Blessed Are The Pure Of Heart is back on Kindle, and will be available in paperback soon.