Workshop

Today my faithful iBook decided to lay its final words onto the page. It is still alive, but it is ailing, and so I found myself on my aged desktop. The documents on it span the last eleven years. That would be half of my life.
Brr..

So, for today, I shall offer the first poem attempted by yours truly, that was not written in a romantic Rebert Frost meter. It was first hand-written (as everything tends to be) and then typed on this great old box.

So here is another verse from the saddle of the old horse. Wow, that even rhymed. I'm going to go give myself a cookie. You guys can read.



Workshop


Our horizontal weeping done,
I draw the curtains open, and return.
In the soft slumber of her closed eyes I live
Alone.
It’s easier that way.

But in the swaying of the curtains’ pose,
The ticking clicks of clocks in prose,
On my back heels I backwards race,
To done undo, to steps erase.

But it is useless -
Soon breakfast will be served.
I find the busy chatter of meaningless words
Soothing.
My heart is let to sleep.