On edges and extremes, singular distress.
A blank page or a capture by a character
with issues, I fumble towards a dark and
stinky mess. What madness! Deprived of
sleep, of nourishment and other things I
care not to talk about. I visit a doctor and
declare I’m zonked out. He tells me to take
sleep; a prescription that fixes problems.
I go home ready to take sleep, and muse
says no: “You call yourself a writer, write!”
Legs cramping and fingers unfeeling, I sit
and I write. As dawn approaches, a voice
screams: “I need sleep!” and the computer
says no. Side effects? I haven’t even started.
This is, the dark side of creativity. And the
luminary still asks, what do I do for a living?
A Dirge Like Birdsong
There’s pouncing and there’s prancing
in birthday suits I mean, of the lot
taking delight in spring.
Strut and stride egg-laying creatures
boasting youth and growth
only wicked wildlings understand.
It’s a celebration of things born anew.
New life in a new year for a living
full of fun and cheer!
Old bird too old to play complains
of injustice. Young chicks
fend for themselves
Whilst, a predator prepares a feast.
Band of skulls continues to play
music lights up the party.
Delight! Lament not the ills.
It’s the circle of life, and birth gifts
abundant as the year begins.
