Tuesday, March 7, 2017


                    Leaf blowers and lawn mowers fill the air
                    With raucous sounds and hubbub to deplore
                    That keep my Muse at bay and cause despair
                    At this feindish mind-rattling uproar:
                    What is an ardent poet to do but cringe
                    When on his meditation sounds like these,
                    Such raucous cacophonics now impinge
                    Afflicting him with tremulous disease?
                    Nothing but pray that soon this blare abates
                    And finally his muddled mind may clear,
                    So what a poet dreams and contemplates
                    May come to view and a new verse appear.
                         Well now, at last, that raucousness has gone
                        And I may find fresh thoughts to ponder on.