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Online journal capturing the moment and the memory of moments. A meadow meditation. |
Doubt and Dry Rot The day he stopped writing was the day I moved in. The cloud covered sky gathered and followed. His Muse was dead. He didn't know it yet, although full of dread, the faucet that had dripped from the font of fresh ideas now rusted up and Dry Rot settled in. We made a pact. We do not let his mind roam down lanes of memory, where his belovèd once sat. We stifle new thoughts and old moans. We are the Masters of his never-to-be-written tomes. © Kåre Enga [164.218] 2007-09-01 Written in the bathtub this morning. The pen ran out of ink and I was forced to press hard and read the imprint later. One can think of the original as being a palimpsest that has been written over. Of course, I also edited it on-line. It's very fresh and there is a line or two I'm not totally happy with, but ... maybe I'll read it months from now and have an AHA! moment. ![]() Now, am I unhappy? NO! NO! NO! Having a good day, thank-you-very-much-for-asking. My poetry does not always reflect my mood at the moment. Or when it does, the moment does not necessarily define my day. Hey, I was the one that got to chat with Nada ![]() ![]() Football starts here today. The game on the Hill against Central Michigan starts at 6 pm and it is warm and very sunny. Kudos so far: Go Applachian State! They stunned Michigan 34-32. Nada ![]() 23,449 |