Tuesday, September 10, 2013

Missing Wordsworth. Again.

Someone asked me for an introduction. I just gawked. Really, for all it's worth, my poems speak of me the way I am. Or am not. Who knows. My poems know me best. Ask them.

No time to stop and stare,
in a forest sans all care,
Herding, ambling along
through creepers, vine and root,
and sound of marching boot,
no music and no song.

It’s crowded when I read,
which happens off and on;
and thus these books to me
are often a clarion
that blows away the cobwebs
of ego and illusion
and brings to light a tableau
born of kindred seclusion.
Baring such truths well-nested
(always were there to see)
My books and I stop here
under this whispering tree
where me, my pen, my longings
at play, yet adequately rested.


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