Friday Fun

I thought to write a letter

Not knowing where or whom

Should receive such an epistle

Of darkness or of gloom.

Should stately enterprise resist

A penchant to deny

That all I ever really want

Is to gaze into the sky.

To sit transfixed and stare

At nature's lovely things

And wait with hopeful patience

For things that soar and sing.

The things I love do nothing

Or so to some it seems 

That writers who are fruitful

Must fill up many reams

Of paper loaded up with ink

And deeply rooted thoughts

That energize the mirth or dearth

Where each of us is caught.

My heart could give a lesson

My head could offer naught,

My love is found in things

That are ambivalent to plot.

This exercise was useful

To open  up the zest

That's found among the poems

Of our old friend, Edgar Guest.

Herb Ratliff, December 30, 2011, All Rights Reserved